An allegory of God’s Love
You planted the seed of Love in my heart
You watered it
You waited patiently
One day I broke through the ground
You sent the sun and rain
You watched over me
I continued to grow
You sent the bees and bugs to pollinate
Sometimes I fell ill
You tended me until I mended
You fertilized the barren soil of my heart
Fruit began to show
You fertilized my heart again
When the fruit was ripe
Others picked it
It was sweet and refreshing
Sometimes you would prune me
At first I was angry —
How could you hurt me that way?
But then I noticed:
After the pruning, I would bear more fruit
I grew older
There was less fruit now
But still good
Sometimes there was bad fruit
You returned it to the earth
To be transformed and to nourish other plants
Sometimes fruit fell to the ground
To begin new plants
I am old now
Dry and shriveled
Soon I will return to the earth
But the seeds that fell
Will continue to grow
Watered by Your Love
A burst of tears fell,
Like rain after the threatening clouds.
There had been rumblings and flashings —
Like a woman giving birth.
I smiled at you,
But you did not smile back.
I gave you a flower,
But it fell unsniffed to the ground.
Like lowly flower
Along a path —
When you can give forth
When trod upon
What is the beauty in a flower?
What draws me to its fragrant bliss?
All I can think, and only this —
It praises Father every hour.
Why do the mountains call to me?
Why so majestic, bold, and grand?
They often tell me of His plan,
His might and power, His purpose grand.
Why does the ocean call to me?
Why crashing waves do beckon still?
Only because my Savior’s voice
Is hidden in their mighty power.
Why do I till and dig the earth?
Now planting seeds that will give birth?
Because the seed that once seemed dead
Will bring new life upon the earth.
Now every day He speaks to me
In seed and flower, in meadows bright.
Though blind and deaf I tend to be
His light and love will make me right.
Like the beauty of a rose,
My heart unfolds.
The raindrops glistening in the sun
Tell stories of the past storm.
With thorns I may have pricked your hand;
I could not understand.
I hope the fragrance of my flower
Healed bleeding hand.
And when you plucked my rose so fair,
I could only lie there;
And let my beauty speak to you
Of love divine.
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