The gardener once knelt down to rub two sticks together ,
he watched the flames crackle ,
and warmed his hands against its embers. glow , .
More wood would be needed to burn this dead brach vine ,
That never bore its name.
thick black smoke enough to choke a man bellowed. from its. being ,
A vine pruned only to leave a stone cold sodden heart .
So thick the smoke it brought a tear Unto my very eye ,
So black my sin a sickle or reaper could not save ,
this fickle branch from its flame.
For what is dead is not for the harvest and must be cast into the
fire ,
And what is worth keeping pruned back for a flower to reign .
For what is a man who has no peace ,
Or joy in sorrow ,
Or patience with his friends . ?
If love cometh from Friendship and in that love there is no
Sorrow or pain .
Or trust , or even faith to light the way .
A couple held hands in Church ,
Not bothered by the flame that burns deep ,
Pruning their lives so sin can't cast its. Stain .
And can it be then ,
That I. a sinner trust ,
In a gardener that prunes and tears all
My dead branches down to dust ,
Thrown into a flame
That ,
On a hill ,
On a cross ,
This flower might bud ,
and it's. beauty forever remain .