The blades make a cut,
Slicing through dead wood,
And the branch falls with a thud;
Useless member,
Exposed by its lack of fruit.
The blades make another cut,
Revealing healthy, green wood.
A Mistake? No.
The blades finish their course,
Sending the living,
To join the dead.
This one will break,
When the storm winds blow;
This one reaches out,
Along a path all its own;
This one steals strength,
From more productive branches;
And this one obscures the light.
Lord, do also unto me.
Cut off what is dead,
Reshape what is alive,
So that I may take on the form,
You deem most desirable,
And bear more fruit,
For the glory of Your kingdom.