Bearing Fruit

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 trimmed,

And every grace

Of swaying tendril, springing leaf,

May lose its place.

O you whose life of joy seems left,

With beauty shorn;

Whose aspirations lie in dust,

All bruised and torn,

Rejoice, though each desire, each dream,

Each hope of thine

Will fall and fade; it is the hand

Of Love Divine

That holds the knife, that cuts and breaks

With tenderest touch,

That you, whose life has borne some fruit,

Might now bear much.

~Annie Johnson Flint