All the trees were turning brown,
With their branches drooping down.
Tomatoes in the garden
Were looking sad and doleful.
The summer sky was hardened,
Clear, cloudless and unhopeful.
But I had a water-well
For just such a desert spell.
So I began, hose in hand,
With the garden’s first demand,
From the faucet stretching out,
Wetting all methodically.
As I lavished round about
They soaked it up immodestly.
Dead branches began to rise
Taking life before my eyes.
Then I reached the hose’s end,
Where all further hope suspends.
Cracking soil held its breath
In this dire emergency;
Drought or plenty—life or death,
In its final urgency.
All would die beyond this place
Without the water’s saving grace.
I knew how to reach them all;
Make the water rise and fall.
Pressing down instinctively
I hold my thumb upon the spout.
Squeezing off relentlessly
Where the water’s coming out.
As the stream is in distress
Then the distant soil is blessed.
Water coughed and choked and screamed
In an undulating stream,
But it sprayed out to the end
Flooding all the distant reach.
Touching plants beyond the bend
Bubbling down into the breach,
Taking water to the roots
In the field beyond my boots.
When our Father would increase
The sphere of those whom you would reach,
He tightens His thumb upon you.
Pain intensifies your worth
And expands your purpose too,
Reaching out to all the earth.
So that under your duress
The ends of the earth are blessed.
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http://thinkinginthespirit.blogspot.com/
http://theanchorofthesoul.blogspot.com/
http://writingprayerfully.blogspot.com/
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