Lord, I see no fruit.
The harsh wind scrapes
Through my barren branches,
And my leaves have long been withered,
Leaving life and joy behind.
In vain, the pale sun strives
To warm my cold core.
You told me that Your Word
Is a living stream
Where the righteous will flourish.
Why then do I seem to wither?
Where is the fruit?
My strength is sapped
From straining for damp earth
Beneath the frost.
Yet, in straining, I have pushed
Through ice and snow
To depths no frost can know.