Into the gate and through the dew-soaked grass, the Gardener treads along His well-worn path
A loamy, earthy aroma of creation fills His nostrils as He inhales
Muted chirps from birds awaken, waiting for sunbeams to pierce the veil
Tending to every plant, His vine, the chosen ones
Heavenly placed in soil of radical grace
Each desperately reliant on the Son
The Gardener’s soil-stained hands gently pluck
Removing wayward sprouts that refuse to yield
Unnerving, the sharp sound from His shears,
Emboldens growth, promising a fertile field
Verdant Vine, His branches intertwine
In their yearning, the Gardener’s design divine
Nurturing love, His cherished rhyme
Eternal life, His garden’s sacred sign
By Eryn Ogren