It would not dwindle one’s worth
When one is called not to be
But is merely charged to give birth
To that which all eyes shall see.
A lady walks in a field of white roses
She spots an odd one that outshines the others
It sits on a separate pot, she notices
What’s in it that made the difference, she wonders.
“How radiant is Your rose,” the woman utters
The Farmer stoops down, a handful of soil He gathers
“How lovely is this dirt,
Out of which lovely things would spurt.”
The Farmer reveals His plan to me
“I am to do something mighty,
I will make a rose bloom so lovely.
Will you be the soil to let it be?”
“As Jonathan yielded his throne for David
As John the Baptist led his disciples to the True Son
So will you be that dirt to care for My seed
Be that no one, and let My perfect will be done?”
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