My thoughts need composting,
Till they become rich with faith lessons and holy worth.
Some sins need uprooting.
Time for hopes to be transplanted
To a proving ground—
A soil where pale reckonings yield to repentance.
My knowable Saviour, stay ever close and near to me!
My times and days are yours, and
To your mountain, like a bird I'll flee—
This surrendered soul of a recovering pharisee.
In your strength I am strong;
With your patient forgiving hand, I can forgive;
Then leafing out tender-green by your love, I also must love.
In that heartland of space and sun I rest and bask.
And even down where roots grow cool-deep and sturdy,
Clay sings,
And night is ever day.
Now, your grace-child,
I can never leave you.
Your light is mine.
I thrive on the warm lifeblood that runs
Between the branches and the vine.
