Each morning, I pass that barren land, Once green and soft, now scorched and tanned. A yard that knew the bloom of spring, Now silent, dry—remembering.
Why did the watering cease one day? Did time slip in and steal away? Did busy hands forget the care, Or did despair hang in the air?
So too, the soul, if left unfilled, Grows parched and weary, hope unspilled. It doesn’t die—but turns to stone, A silent ache, a hollowed tone.
Yet even hearts as dry as bone Can drink again what Heaven’s shown For mercy rains in steady streams, And grace revives our buried dreams.
No soul’s too far, no ground too cracked, For living water to bring it back. So let us tend what lies inside, And water well where love may hide.
For hearts, once hard, can bloom again, With just one drop of Heaven’s rain.
