Tuesday, February 19, 2013


Weeds and vines creep through my mind
Growing faster than the speed of light
Crowding out indigenous thoughts
That need more sun and best be in pots
For now that the weeds have overtaken this space
I can’t hear the thoughts that were in their place
The sweet rose-pedals of love and acceptance
The tender lilies of grace and repentance
The daffodils that signaled the end to all strife
The peacemaking tulips have lost their dear lives.
Now the vines are all passing their judgments so vile
And the weeds have free reign to fret for a while
Alas, my tools are no match for fecundity
Of the sort that cause rabbits to blush in envy
Hands tied by a vine, a weed ‘cross my face
I am ready to give up on tending my space
When all of a sudden I recall with a cry
There is a Gardener with more tools than I
Not made of hand, but of Spirit and Word
He’s wise as a snake and gentle as a bird
And he’s willing to come and fix up my garden
Whenever I call, because he can pardon
Me, and the mess I have made
By keeping my flowers alone in the shade
And letting the weeds soak up the sun.
But when he comes, the work will be done
With nary an effort, he’ll convert my vines
Into fruit bearing ones, makers of wines
The weeds he’ll gather with just one stroke
And place them upon the fire that stokes
Our faith and hope in a life ever after
That tastes of fine wine, and sounds of sweet laughter.

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