The Garden of My Dreams


Time well-spent as I attend

the garden of my dreams;

weeds of doubt, I pull them out,

no matter how small they seem

For if left alone they’d soon mature,

blossoming into fear;

the Vine that grows and coils to choke

my vision… once so clear

Time well-spent as I still toil

to keep my garden free

from stones of unbelief, or roots of bitterness,

or any such debris

The passing years by patience prove

by grace alone who I shall be;

the fruit I’ve grown from seeds I’ve sown

The Garden of My Dreams

Written by: Stephen Hare

Copyright© 7/2005

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