I watched a gardener,
As she plucked some weeds out of the ground.
Some already dead; withered
And some still living,
Enjoying the short span of life they had left.

We are just like these flowers,
Frolicking in the wind,
With God as our gardener,
Slowly plucking each of us out of this earth.

But others are still there,
Frolicking,
Making the most of life,
Blooming and blossoming like flowers.

But then there are others,
That grow and wither.
Wither because they are too weak,
So frail and small,
Unable to withstand the force of the wind,
For the wind’s too strong,
It’s too much.
So they break and fall and slowly w i t h e r.

It’s like life’s too much,
And not a soul stops by to prune them,
Or water them,
And watch them grow beautifully.
So they just wither a w a y ..