I am rootbound when he arrives
trowel in hand to decide
that squeezed I am inside this space
where my roots twine tightly laced
in soil I know so well.
"Do not touch me!" I cry in vain
but he ignores my silent pain
and reaches for my sturdy stem
and pulls and pulls and pulls again.
Then I am out and I am shaken
free of soil that I have taken
hold in, and which for years
held me rooted in my fears
and prejudices and suppositions
locked into my tight positions.
The vines that helped to hold me there
he cuts away with special care.
They coil and cling but yet they lack
the power now to hold me back
Now the gardener gently toils
to plant me in a different soil
telling me what I must know:
"It's scary, child, but here you'll grow.
Now that you've been given room
and softer ground in which to bloom."
Then he waters me with love
and truth from somewhere up above
as new leaves unfurl one by one
and I turn, grateful, towards The Son.
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