Unbroken ground will yield no crop
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until a seed can breach the soil.
No root can live at ease on top;
it must dive deep and never stop
'til soothing water ends its toil.
One worn down sole will soon need mend
to save the boot and hide from harm.
A weary soul still needs a friend
to pass the miles as they extend
beyond one's grasp; lean on an arm.
What heart can't feel the burden's tear,
the crushing weight beneath one's sin?
Far from relief, fueled by despair,
the sinews strain beyond repair,
and hope subsides as walls cave in.
The last thing that one wants to do,
when pride rears up its pristine head,
is seek the doctor's point of view
and lance the wound, expose it to
the One who raised Christ from the dead.