My Gardener’s tools are sharp and precise
His pruning is ornate
His careful hand and His watchful eye
Mould my character and state
Slowly slowly the dead leaves fall
Pruned away with care
The pain, the pain as He works with love
The dead leaves disappear
Self, pride, rage and blame
Must be cut away
The agony of lessons learnt
And the time it takes to grow
This tree’s fruit is sparse and few
In spite of the Gardener’s tending
But over time and by His grace
This tree is still upstanding
Seasons come and seasons go
The same bad fruit appears
Patiently He trims away
The pain, the falling tears
Yet He prunes, waters and His Son still shines
Sometimes I wonder why
He doesn’t uproot this tree
And throw it in the fire
By His grace I’ll live and learn
As long as He keeps correcting
Over time I pray He sees
The face of His Son reflecting