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The Mindless Gardener
by Peter English At home upon a street of normal gait Then shadowed by that apostolic town The Mindless Gardener left the outer door And softly laxed his knees beside the soil. In went the shovel, out came blackened clods And so unmade the shape of Gods fair hand Because of higher thoughts than deist rights He desired to rather use powr to grow. In went the seeds, Gods second, better mind, And over them the gardener poured the soil He resigned each of them to mindful fate Sure of Providences timely descent. Then spoke the Mindless Gardener from his knees, Hear me, Almighty God and grow my garden As once you spoke and made Eden spring forth So bless your creation and its proprietor. Resuming his position at his home, The Mindless Gardener waited to be blessed As often told in scriptures he once read For if the father farmers found such grace, Should not their sons receive similar gifts? Thus he eyed the Fathers well-working. As all the world cycled through heated days, The Mindless Gardener faithfully observed His providential garden weather time. One early day, a neighbor came and told The Mindless Gardner where he found the truth. Your Garden, Sir, it has aged nine weeks And yet I see nothing but weeds and brush Growing over the grave of those dear seeds Which you have so callously neglected. You are a liar, my friend, for you will Have none of which you promised Almighty God when you knelt to plant your promised crop. You are accursed, so God has said to me, For he who lies is of the Devils part And you are one more burning stick again Snatched from the chained fire of the fall. So spake the neighbor in his righteous mind To which the Mindless Gardener neer replied. He only smiled and watched his garden grow In Gods time, not his own conceited clock. But then came nine more weeks and not a sprout Appeared except for baleful weeds and grime. Again the righteous neighbor hopped the fence: You fail your creator, Mindless Gardener, For you do not trust with your hands, only Your mind remains astute while physical Faculties leave you every waking day. Assuredly you are choked from the Lord You murderer of Gods creative gift! Should fallen angels falsely call, you would Desert even Abdiels loyal turn, And down to the most barren place you still Would feel at home, as you so now agree. Gods providence will never touch the soil Of such an idle, mindless gardener. And so he parted finally away. To the Mindless Gardener still well in mind, Alive in Spirit, steady in his will, The diatribe fell harmlessly to naught. Still, the Gardener Mindlessly awaited Gods good time for providences timely Arrival at his soil, with joy unveiled And faith withstanding on his happy face. Peter J. Bodurtha, St. Olaf College '06, prolific liver, doubter, daily death-wish Jesus-clinger, and a host of other unmentionables. Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |