Like a star when it sees the Sun.

Maybe I could be small
Maybe I could be nothing at all, and You could be everything.

It could start slow, like this; as, after all, seeds become sprouts before they're great oaks
Or strong cedars
Or tall pines
And I've a divided mind
And a long way to go.

Yeah, and maybe not for more than a week at first
(And often faltering, and usually confused, and sometimes unsure)
But trying.
Really, trying.

And slow.
And steady.
And crowned with steadfast love and mercy,
And forgiven all the time.

And then, and afterward, always, a revolution in my ribcage.
And a mind being transformed.
And not holding grudges.
And not loving useless things.
And not hating useless people.
And not shrugging my shoulders
Or closing my eyes
Or giving up so easy
Or anything passive or apathetic or cold.

Maybe I'm a meagre acorn, clinging to a branch on an oak that's getting old, and more dead and barren all the time.
Maybe I could clench my fists
(Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it abides alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit)
and set my teeth
("Because I live, you will also live")
and drop.

And that could be alright.