A sparrow hatched the other day;
he rose in hunger, forced to look up.
There his small supplication was met
for God had stirred life from the dirt.
A sparrow opened trembling eyes;
shell fragments clung about his frame.
He did not know the warmth that held him
was mercy cupped in feathered flame.
A sparrow cried the other day;
his throat was thin with need.
Above, a shadow crossed the sun
God bent the wind to scatter seed.
A sparrow pecked the dusty field;
he scratched where roots ran deep.
Unseen, the Lord had clothed the earth
with hidden bread to keep.
A sparrow took flight the other day;
he poised on the branch’s edge.
Outstretched, he leapt into the air
God’s whisper bore his pledge.
A sparrow faltered in the breeze;
his wings beat frail and fast.
The currents rose beneath his breast
a steady Hand held fast.
A sparrow dusted the other day;
he rolled in common clay.
He thought it simple sparrow-play
God cleansed him that way.
A sparrow sang the other day;
his song was thin and small.
He did not know Who tuned his throat
and heard each fragile call
A sparrow courted the other day;
he hopped with awkward grace.
Beneath the lilies’ silver sway
God shaped a nesting place.
A sparrow gathered the other day
small threads of straw and reed.
He wove what seemed his fragile home
God wove what he would need.
A sparrow faced the hawk one day;
the shadow split the sky.
He dove beneath the brambled thorns
God hid him there to lie.
A sparrow trembled the other day;
the clouds split wide the sky.
They passed along their ordered path
God set its bounds of old.
A sparrow watched the other day
the lilies bow and fade.
He did not know the withering field
was mercy gently made.
A sparrow shivered the other day;
the frost crept through the plain.
Before the white could claim his breath,
God loosed him from the strain.
A sparrow died the other day;
there was no sting or cry.
No sparrow counts his numbered days
yet none escape God’s eye.
Before winter’s blanket smothered him,
before decay could claim,
golden fingers pierced the clouds
and called him home by name.
The earth received what earth had borne;
dust rested into dust.
But never once, in life or death,
had he been left to chance—or trust.
For not a sparrow falls alone,
nor trembles out of sight.
The Hand that fed his fragile days
held him through the night.