You promise to prune. You promise to clean.
We cannot even do this. We don’t know where to cut, or, dare I say, hold anything sharp enough to clip the roots.

You hold the shears, tears in eyes, smile on face, whispering,

“Can I cut? My son, my beloved, my sheep, will you let me clean you.” 

He stands ready.

You mercifully and fiercely love us.
Your love is not distant.
It does not fear rejection, it does not embrace with a hesitant heart.

You, you in your perfection clean us. You purify, you prune and you protect.

 Come Jesus, come Spirit, come Father and prune.

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