Yā Rabb, You painted, in one verse, the most extraordinary investment offer in the universe. One grain. Seven hundred grains. And then You said: I multiply further for whom I will. The ceiling does not exist. The return is bounded only by Your generosity, which has no bound. And You closed with two names: Wasīʿ (vast) and ʿAlīm (knowing). You see every gram I gave. You know every niyyah behind the giving. You measured the difficulty of my letting go. And You multiplied each grain accordingly. Ya Allāh, forgive me for the math of fear that has, too often, run my charity. The hesitation before the donation page. The calculation that wanted to give 'less than that, more than this.' The doubt that asked 'is this too much?' Allah, You answered with one grain and seven hundred. The math of shayṭān is shrinkage; Your math is expansion. Move my hand to the giving without the small calculations. Build a structural rhythm of sadaqah in my life: a monthly orphan, a weekly food drive, a daily small drop in the masjid box, a sadaqah jariyah I will not see until the Day. Plant grains. Plant them in fields You named: an orphan's meal, a Quran in a hand, a well in a village, a student's tuition, a sister's medical bill, a brother's wedding contribution. Each grain You will grow seven hundred times, and beyond. And on the Day when the harvest is brought to me, ya Rabb, let me find that the grains I scattered while I lived have become a field that shades me from the Fire and feeds me into Jannah. Āmīn ya Wasīʿ, ya ʿAlīm, ya Karm.