Poet by Design

When I became a poet,
Designed in humility,
The Mighty hand of God
Came and laid this gift on me.

The package I did not know
Nor did I recognize,
No beautifully tied ribbon
For it was in a disguise!

It had no decorated paper
Nor an ornamental bow.
Just a weakened, withered tree,
A root that did not grow.

I was but a shriveled plant.
No fruit could e'er be found,
An unattractive branch,
Just a twig upon the ground.

God began to prune each branch
As painful as it became
So the withered tree would grow
And bring glory to his name.

For the tree that bares no fruit
Would be thrown into a fire
For there would be no purpose
As an unproductive writer.

It took tender loving care
And fertilization to sprout
But buds began to appear
And poetry began to shout!

Then, slowly a poet emerged
From the dry, withered remains.
A total resurrection from
The twig that had no gain.

And as the tree 'gan to mature
And blossoms began to grow
He placed it on a pedestal
For all the world to know.

He had given it a purpose
And a doctorate degree
For it was not enough
Just to prune the withered tree.

He spoke life into the branches
They will never be the same.
This dry twig now has a purpose
And the Father is to blame.

There, underneath the branches
Grew fruit of various kinds
Producing a handmade poet,
A poet by his design.

"He that has begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of your redemption." Philippians 1:6