"I Am The Vine,
Ye Are The Branches"
It is the branch that bears the fruit,
That feels the knife.
To prune it for a larger growth,
A fuller life.
Though every budding twig be lopped,
And every grace
Of swaying tendril, springing leaf,
Be lost a space.
O 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, that cuts and breaks
With tenderest touch,
That thou, whose life has borne some fruit
May’st now bear much.
Poems of the Way
Anne Johnson Flint