The wind had stripped the orchard bare, And flung the roof-tiles everywhere; I walked among the wreck I'd known, And found I walked the wreck alone.
The apple tree my grandfather planted Leaned half-awake, bent, but not dead; Its roots, though wounded, held the ground Where grace had kept a secret bed.
I thought my labor earned the fruit, The walls, the beams, the painted door; But all I built was borrowed timber And breath the Giver lent once more.
So let the storm take what it takes— It cannot reach the covenant made; My name is written where no flood Or final darkness can invade.
I gather splinters, nail by nail, Not to restore what I have lost, But to rebuild with quieter hands And count the coming dawn as cost.
For mercy met me in the mud Before I rose to pray or plan; The God who sends the storm also Bends down to lift the fallen man.