| There’s a garden my brother started months ago
|
| Though he prayed for harvest, it now lies overgrown
|
| He shuffled earth but never sowed a seed
|
| Only his doubts took root and they chocked his faith like weeds
|
| But when his nerves returned, he went to face those empty beds
|
| And found the earth had given birth despite his promises unkept
|
| Brother Micah feared the seeds he’d sown
|
| And he prayed for mercy from crops he knew would surely grow
|
| But there’s no way to hide the shame we plant at night
|
| They may lie dormant but blooms will always find the light
|
| If there was only justice in this world, he’d be alone
|
| With his heart still left in parts that he could never whole
|
| But now I ask you of his bride: «Friend, do you see that rose?»
|
| She is the loveliest crop failure he will ever know
|
| We plant, water and worry
|
| But we don’t have any control of the harvest itself
|
| But, oh, the Messiah, He is not like us
|
| His power is endless and He won’t break His promise
|
| And there’s still a garden, sown at the foundation
|
| It’s ripe with redemption and spreading its roots
|
| Bless the storm for the rain
|
| Bless the Lord for the proof
|
| That the harvest is soon
|
| And I know that it’s true
|
| Cause I have seen the first fruits
|
| We are the first fruits |