While we are tending our earthly gardens,
The Gardener lends us His seeds to sow,
The bulbs of His lilies, the roots of His roses,
To plant and cherish and watch them grow.
Sometimes He comes when the day is over
And garners a sheaf of the full grown wheat,
Ripe for the harvest and waiting for the sickle,
Ready to fall at the Reaper's feet.
And sometimes He comes in the early morning
And tenderly gathers the sweetest flowers,
The buds of the lily, the rose half-opened:
Shall we not joy when He chooses ours?
Shall we not yield God our loveliest blossoms,
Glad that He finds them so fragrant and fair,
Worthy transplanting to heavenly gardens,
To gain new beauty beneath His care?
Never a storm shall sweep over His flowers,
Nor drought shall wither, nor frost shall blight;
About His feet they shall grow unfading,
And bloom forever in His pure sight.
"The Gardener"
Annie Johnson Flint
(1866-1932)
American poetess
In loving memory of my father
Anthony Michael Brida
(May 22, 1938-July 29, 2020)
Rest peacefully Daddy
in the loving arms of The Gardener
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