Futile to fertile

By Quentin Whitford

Parched and weary, the soil resists me;

the wind is raw, the cracks invade.

Barren, drained, desperate, yearning,

the seed destroyed, a darkened stain.

Incessant thorns, ankles bleeding;

bent and low, the blunted plough.

Wretched root, my heart deceives me;

perpetual toil, I must prevail.

Yoke consumes me, burden bleeding;

in vain I strive to no avail.

Resistant stone, my tissue failing;

affliction breaks the feeble bone.

Collapsing, failing: the ash receives me,

Broken, wasted, hopeless heap.

Crushed, defeated, empty, dying,

I cry, “Oh Master, I’m too weak.”

My eyes grow dim, my breath evades me,

my body still, lifeless and cold.

Awaiting death, I sense a shifting:

horizon fills with brimming cloud.

A distant rumble, a flash of light;

a rushing torrent consumes my soul.

My Master finds me, removes the bindings,

and places me on the solid stone.

A cup is placed to ruined lips:

a cleansing stream, a quenching flood.

Seed enriched, restored, revived

to gain life’s root, where once was death.

The field He sowed, the weeds cast out;

new beauty, fruit and bounty.

By His grace the harvest waits,

a scythe He places in my hand.

Without His power, His hand, His will,

I struggle and I toil in vain.

He alone will nourish the seed,

and He alone be praised.