If I were an artist, Lord,
I would paint the Word of God.
Your Word takes root within my soil (soul)
In time it begins to grow.
Other seeds are scattered there
and crowd around it so.
Seeds of weeds grow thick within,
I feel a tug. Whats this?
Whos there? I wonder. Another tug
Whats happening with my world of bliss?
Take off your hand from that part!
Why do you mess with me?
Resistance holds against the foe
Who will win out, I do not know.
Another tug yet I resist
The soil surrounding
clamors together
to protect the root
from the Heavenly invader.
No more rain to soften the soil
Only heat to scorch and harden the soil
Soon the other seeds are crying for thirst
I look around my fruits are withering.
Dark clouds are looming and hide the sun
Good seeds dying the worlds weed won.
Tears begin to flow from my heart
They water the clods and break them apart.
Release has come as I bury my head
in repentful sorrow upon my bed.
This time the tug is more successful
as Ive released my grip around this thistle.
The Gardener pulls it roots and all,
flings it against the great stone wall,
where it withers and dies among the ruins
of other roots filled with destructive poison.
Oh, now I see what He was doing,
cleansing my soil from that which was bad.
From where I sat I could not tell
which seeds were from Him and which from Hell.
Now the Son shines brightly so
as the clouds from Him are removed
with His blow of cool, clean wind
which refreshes my face
and causes me to beam
with His loving grace.
Thursday, August 8, 2002
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