I thought I heard the call of God
To dress and keep a garden of flowers.
There were lovely roses waiting to bloom, gentle lilies sleeping underneath.
A row of gentle violets lay shy, and the fragrance of Jasmine just waiting to spread.
I wondered at the Gardener, for this plan, his ways, his love
For each flower, each shrub and vine.
I was eager to begin and see the flowers bloom,
Was eager to water the withered and weak.
I stood wondering for there was no trace of any path
Nor any cobble stone pathway running along
To run between the shrubs and vines
And tend the flowers that will revive.
But, there was a path that led
Through a twisting patch of thistles and thorns
Scratches were many when I tried to water the withered
Wounds ran deep when I pulled the weeds.
Each scratch and wound would bleed and dry
Then a fresh thorn would press in soon
The pain was sharp and the fang so harsh
Making it sore and raw and deep
My heart ached and my soul started trembling
My strength was waning and I looked for rest
I stood by a shade and looked hard and slow
To see what went wrong inside my haven
Not every drop of love and tear went into the thirsty root,
Some got lost, some dried by the harsh sun
Some was rejected, some stubbornly resisted
Till I felt I had no more to share
Confused, dejected I went to the Gardener,
Poured out my distress and cried at his feet
What went wrong when I went to love and care?
How is it that there is no flower…nor a sign of bud?
The gentle Gardener pulled me up
Gathered me into the soft folds of his arms
Laid his loving hands on my head
Lifted my chin and looked into my eyes.
I saw a world of sorrow in his eyes, yet felt joy rushing in,
I tasted his tears of bitter woes, yet found it a gentle cleansing stream.
I felt his harsh wounds that hurt, yet the power of healing was strong,
A drop of blood from his brow touched my heart and then I understood.
There can never be a garden without a cross (John:19:41)
There can never be rose without a thorn
There is no fragrance without the crushing
There is no life without dying.
I bowed with deep reverence at his feet
Touched at the Gardner’s kind heart of love
For he showed me in His beautiful way
That in making a garden I was missing the point.
It’s he who has the power to heal and create
To make the withered lively and whole.
His call was not for me to make a Garden – which only he can
But to become one in the process of making one.
Now I understand the thorn that crushed my impatience
Were allowed for a i had a dearth of roses
The valley of darkness which brought my pride low
was just the thing needed for lilies to bloom.
I do not miss the purpose of serving the Gardener anymore
For his plan is perfect for me as well as for his precious souls
I plant, he waters, I weed and he prospers
In the Garden of my soul.