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.