It is the branch that bears the fruit,

That feels the knife,

To prune it for a larger growth,

A fuller life.

Though every budding twig be lopped,

And every grace

Of swaying tendril, springing leaf,

Be lost a space.

O thou whose life of joy seems reft,

Of beauty shorn;

Whose aspirations lie in dust,

All bruised and torn,

Rejoice, tho' each desire, each dream,

Each hope of thine

Shall fall and fade; it is the hand

Of Love Divine

That holds the knife, that cuts and breaks

With tenderest touch,

That thou, whose life has borne some fruit

May'st now bear much.

--Annie Johnson Flint photo

"And every branch that beareth fruit he purgeth
it, that it may bring forth more fruit" John 15:2