An hour of toil in the garden, Is always time well-spent Tugging out those stubborn old weeds, Which year upon year won't relent. An hour spent tending the garden, Is never wasted time, Lungs full of wonderful sweet, Spring air, Hands caked in dirt and grime. It's hard to feel glum in the garden, With birds chirping high in the trees, Potting up Pansies, so cheery and bright, Hair tugged about by the breeze. Cutting the deadwood, turning the earth, Allowing the sun to shine through, Seems to clear my cluttered mind, And lifts my spirits too. Thank you dear Lord for my garden, Humble and small though it be, It's a place where so often I've felt You are near, And Your joy surrounding me. Once You knelt down in a garden, And in terrible anguish You cried, "Thy will, not Mine, be done O Lord!" Abandoned. Betrayed. Denied. One Sunday morn, in a garden, You rose up again from the grave, Bringing salvation and mercy and grace, To the ones You came to save!