The Pruned Branch
“Every branch that bears fruit,
the Lord God purges it, that it may bring forth more fruit.”
It is the branch that bears the fruit
That feels the knife,
To prune it for a larger growth
And fuller life,
Though every budding twig be lopped,
And every grace of swaying tendril,
Springing leaf,
Be lost a space.
Oh, thou whose life of joy seems ‘reft,
Of beauty shorn,
Whose aspirations lie in dust,
All bruised and torn,
Rejoice, though each desire, each dream,
Each hope of thine
Shall fall and fade; it is the hand
Of love divine
That holds the knife, which cuts and breaks
With tenderest touch,
That thou, whose life has borne some fruit,
May now bear much.