What's the worst that could happen
If you set aside your spade,
Paused from cultivating the garden of your discontent,
Lopping off roses and counting thorns,
Planting what-ifs,
Blanketing if-onlys like mulch,
Harvesting heartache?
What's the worst that could happen
If you sowed your sorrows,
Buried shards of shattered heart,
Watered them with surrendered tears,
Offering your brokenness
That the God of resurrection
May transfigure it,
Blooming forth beauty of holiness
And joy from pain?
What's the worst that could happen
If you dared to believe
That God is cultivating--
Through the very desolation that you dread--
A glorious harvest beyond
Everything you thought you wanted?
What's the worst that could happen
If you yielded your crushed and bruised spirit
To the True Gardener
And dared to abide in hope
Of abundant and eternal fruit?
