Open me up, right to the center
where ripe things wait for harvest
and the dead for pruning.

A cut running through the thicker
parts, a fine line to the heart.
Open me up, right to the center

find there a body not weaker
but willing and a soul no tempest
can shake, a place where dead things wait for pruning.

Drop inside seeds of life, alter
what I am, and grow in me the softest
place. Open me up, right to the center.

Stretch out of me into something finer
past rambling bushes and dust
and find there nothing in need of pruning.

Make me like you, Father,
and turn my worst into your best,
Open me up right to the center,
leave nothing dead for pruning.

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