Sam Hardman
O Lord of the harvest,
You have planted us in your garden
not to be barren,
but to bear much fruit.
Yet we resist your cultivation.
We see the Pruner’s saw
and shrink from painful cuts,
unwilling to yield to loss
of branch or limb –
believing the lie
that fruit-laden branches may be gained
by some means other than pain and loss.
We see the Gardener’s ties –
the bonds for training our tender shoots –
yet we long to grow wild,
pouring all our vitality
into unruly stems
that will never produce.
The end of such madness
is curse, withered leaf, death.
And so, O Lord, we implore you,
do not give us over to our own way.
Cut, tie, bind.
Be – Yourself – the life-giving elixir
that flows through all our tissues.
And grant us good fruit that endures.
Amen.