Thursday, September 22, 2016

Bud Of Joy




Come, bud of joy, the driving rain
That all thy young, 
green leaves doth wet
Is but a minister of gain
To that which in thy heart is set.

Come forth, my bud;
awake and see
How good thy Gardener is to thee.

And pass, my bud, to perfect flower,
Dread not the blast of bitter wind;
Thy Maker doth command its power;
It knoweth not to be unkind.

Haste thee, my flower;
unfold and see
How good thy Gardener
is to thee.

O fruit that cometh after rain,
O fruit that ripeneth in the sun,
Now praised be God that not in vain
For Thee the changeful seasons run.

O fruit of mine, make all men see
How good thy Gardener is to thee.

Great Gardener, whose grey rain beat,
And sudden blasts of grievous wind,
Whose sun devoured me with his heat,
I know Thee wise, I know Thee kind.

Let all who look be caused to see
How good my Gardener is to me. 

And when the sap in me doth fail
And natural vigor of my youth,
Then may Thy life in me prevail,

That I may still show forth in truth
By flower and fruit on this my tree,
How good my Gardener is to me.



Bud Of Joy--Amy Carmichael