God looked at the field, filled with thorns, weeds, and every disgusting vegetation, and among them he found me, a pathetic tree with disgusting pits for fruit. It was his delight to cultivate me. He cleared away the thorns and clinging vines. He turned over my soil. He watered me with his word. Now finally, I have displayed his greatly-desired fruit. How does it taste to the gardener? How do the buds smell in his holy nostrils? In his delight, he has made me to sink my roots into the ground, to drink deep from his law and his gospel. When I was shallow, I was blown over by every wind that approached me. I hated and despised the gardener that I judged to be poor and absent. What treason.
On the last day, I shall see perfectly how he has delighted in me, that his hands have ever been tending to me, day and night. He has loved me, the good gardener. He has made my roots to be thickened and my branches to REACH TO THE SKY!!! My branches shall be bent with the weight of fruit and resting fowl. The fragrance of my flower will be pleasant because God himself is the gardener and inspects the work of his own hands. He will and presently does look on his work with holy delight. He exalts over his grand works and sits in the shade of my branches. How my heart longs to be cultivated by the gardener, and my roots long for the wetness of his word. Speak to me, precious husbandman. Uproot me and set me by a steady flowing stream. The siren call of the clinging vines weigh me down as they sink their tendrils into my phloem and threaten to stunt me. But you see my deadness and delight in the fruit of faith that I bear. You will clear the vines and fight for me. You will uproot the idols of my heart. "Return to me," you say, "for I have redeemed you." Oh Father, the gardener, redeemer. Woo me to you. I turn my back on my evil ways. Yet I still depend on you. Tomorrow I am lost, except that you preserve me. You will preserve me, for I am your cultivated tree. Yours. The work of your hands in which you delight.
On the last day, I shall see perfectly how he has delighted in me, that his hands have ever been tending to me, day and night. He has loved me, the good gardener. He has made my roots to be thickened and my branches to REACH TO THE SKY!!! My branches shall be bent with the weight of fruit and resting fowl. The fragrance of my flower will be pleasant because God himself is the gardener and inspects the work of his own hands. He will and presently does look on his work with holy delight. He exalts over his grand works and sits in the shade of my branches. How my heart longs to be cultivated by the gardener, and my roots long for the wetness of his word. Speak to me, precious husbandman. Uproot me and set me by a steady flowing stream. The siren call of the clinging vines weigh me down as they sink their tendrils into my phloem and threaten to stunt me. But you see my deadness and delight in the fruit of faith that I bear. You will clear the vines and fight for me. You will uproot the idols of my heart. "Return to me," you say, "for I have redeemed you." Oh Father, the gardener, redeemer. Woo me to you. I turn my back on my evil ways. Yet I still depend on you. Tomorrow I am lost, except that you preserve me. You will preserve me, for I am your cultivated tree. Yours. The work of your hands in which you delight.
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