Jesus, tell me a story; sing to me a song; remind me where I'd be if to You I did not belong.
There once was a farmer who planted a tiny tree; beat by wind and rain, a rooted sapling cannot flee.
So, she bent and relinquished to storms' mighty demands; the farmer faithfully prayed deep roots, help her withstand.
She continued to fight, yet crooked she grew; powerful winds dictate direction; she surrenders to its brew.
The earth became rocky, and she began to wither; the farmer stood over her to beaten sapling,
I know you feel abandoned by these working hands, but the storms you've endured is the reason deeply you are planted.
The ground where you sit might be stony and cold, but underneath, feel your roots; they provide strength in their hold.
Every gust that pulled at you, every raindrop that added weight, your roots, firmly planted, all this time, grew straight.
Patiently, they've been waiting as you twisted, bent, and fell, for within the soil around you stands an even mightier well.
Its springs have nourished what you no longer remembered; now arise with revealed tendrils, be no longer buried treasure.
She began to grow strong and develop ripened fruit, all because a faithful farmer believed in what she could produce.