He pushed the creaking garden gate
Against the hinges strong protest,
And there he met a forlorn state -
A garden no more at its best.
Forgotten beauty, disarray,
Past glory now in sorrow lay.
ĎMidst thistle, bramble, thorn and weed
He traced a path untrod for years.
He let his steps explore and lead
Though sadness filled his eyes with tears.
Could ever this forlorn decay
Rejoice again in light of day?
But then with gentle, patient hand,
He dug out each persistent root
And worked towards his master plan
To fill his garden full of fruit.
And through his hands, so scratched and torn,
A place of loveliness was born.
He toiled and laboured hour by hour
He gave the all he could afford,
And every day new shoot, new flower
Developed there, as loveís reward.
Dark brambles banished, and the site
Flourished and grew in new-found light.
Spring bulbs in yellow, gold and blue,
Preceded summerís colour bright.
Deep red and coral, autumnís hue,
Followed by winterís dazzling white.
He loved his garden, spring and fall,
But this he treasured most of all:
A purple curtain flowing down,
Instead of thornís unsightly veil,
Lush bourganvilleaís sweeping gown
In Kingly elegance its trail.
This glorious royal transformation
Was a reminding revelation:
Rich purple robe, sharp thorny crown,
Once sat upon the King of Kings.
There, dressed in mocking royal gown
And piercing thorn that bleeds and stings,
He gave Himself, His body torn,
There, from His Love, new life is born.
And now each day, my Saviourís hand
Digs and removes more thorny root.
The Master Gardener works His Plan
To fill His garden full of fruit.
Lord, let my life more fruitful be,
Your garden for eternity.
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