Pruning
To awake the spiritual eyes in me,
I must die to myself, though unnatural it be.
Wake up soul, and see with new eyes,
how something lives why'll something dies.
Prune now my heart from bitter thorns.
Blow the trumpet, sound the horns!
Death to my will, my heart I give,
to the one who died so that I might live.
Copyright © Crista Gorman | Year Posted 2011
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