Labor of Love



A garden is a labor of love

Of that I have no doubt.

The insects munch, the rabbits lunch,

The bees spread pollen about.


I labor here to make it mine

Weeding and digging my way.

I plant some seeds, so do the weeds,

And the garden grows each day.


God’s love is here, in every seed,

In every blossom gay,

Whatever I do, the garden is true

To God’s plan for it each day.


I do what I can, and God does too,

I might as well admire–

Flower or weed, whatever’s the need,

God’s love will there transpire.


My place in the garden is small indeed

Perhaps this is truly best,

For I’ve come to see I’m like a tree

Growing myself with the rest.