Much Fruit

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 trimmed,
And every grace
Of swaying tendril, springing leaf
May lose its place.

O thou, whose life of joy seems left,
With beauty shorn,
Whose aspirations lie in dust,
All bruised and torn,

Rejoice, though 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
Might now bear much.

- Annie Johnson Flint