The Birthing

The Birthing

Hardened and barren, windswept ground
Alone, unpromising
Until You bent down,
And You weeded me,
You raked and You pulled
And You placed in me just one small bulb.
Tiny package of life within.

And then through a season's burnt out ends
And then beneath winter's  harsh frozen sheets,
You were waiting.
You were waiting for the birthing,
For the bursting forth of the soft green shoots,
Fresh from the winter's warming womb,
The reds, the yellows, and the blushing pinks--
One resplendant dance!

While the Son shone down transcendant.