Note: God is the gardener.
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Tread lightly on this tender reed,
where once there seemed a mighty tree.
The searing sword of truth indeed
sheared through the trunk down to the seed;
this splintered mass, no longer me.
I shall not boast nor croon nor preen
before the axe, which brings me low,
nor curse the blade that cuts all clean,
successive blows, well placed and keen,
in pruning back, so I may grow.
A loving hand has trimmed each leaf,
each branch and twig bound to this vine.
As pain subsides beyond all grief
abundant fruit grows sweet relief,
when all I bear is His, not mine.