Poetry

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The Years that the Locusts have eaten
Are withered and dry and gone
The Locusts themselves are departed
No more over and under and on

And yet to that dry desolation
The desert that once was a lawn
The wasteland that once was a garden
Where dreams are dead, broken and gone

The Lord of the seed-time and harvest
Has come to His garden at last
The voice of the springtime is calling
The cold of the winter is past.

The years of 'before', now composted,
And blessed by God's sovereign design
Having lost all the shape that they once had
Are ready for Him to combine

With the water of life given freely
Creating a glorious mud
Rich,
Ready for seeds of His planting
For the time of the flower and the bud

The angels in heaven rejoicing
Amazed at his plans deep and true
Can hardly contain their excitement
As their Master comes to you..

Oh quiet! Look, look! He is bending,
He's taking the heart's gift of dust
He's watering, probing, tending
He's honoring love's flickring trust.

And out of that dry desolation
Is awakening something new
New life to that dust He is giving
Eternity in view.

-Mary L. Stockler

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