Lent 12: Luke 13:1-9

The barren fig tree

Let not these hands stretch empty to Your sky.

Let not the tender nurture be in vain.

Let not neglect let these strange roots run dry.

In gracious season Lord, send me Your rain.

Let me not be that ugly-sounding gong

As all my crafted words fall into space.

Be Yourself, Lord, before, behind, along,

Let all my utterance reflect Your Grace.

Let me not shrink from love to sentiment.

Let these my hands reach out as Yours first reached

Until Your very scars are evident,

And the dark fortress of my self is breached.

Let me be true to Truth, Your will be done,

Through my own feeble being, hour by hour.

Resting in You until my race is run,

Loving the broken by Your Spirit’s power.