The Weighted Beauty in the Wait of Pruning

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens...He has made everything beautiful in its time." - Ecclesiastes 3:1, 11a

The hands of my mind
Gripped the matters
Of my circumstance,
Coveting the control I lack.
What should be
Is not
Manifesting into the reality 
I hoped it would be.

I awake in the morning
Confident and expectant
That the fruit of Your Spirit
Will make its impact.
Nevertheless, by nightfall,
Any surety of
Your blessing revealed
Is dashed.

Why, when I come,
Does the wind of chaos appear?
What is the fault,
Once hidden within me,
Seemingly illuminate in the midst
Of my calling?  Isn't this the place
Of my purpose; why then
Where I should thrive, I fall?

A slick, slimy, leather hand
Caressed tightly
Around my throat, cutting off
The windpipe to my heart.
Confusion continued to stir in my mind
As I assumed the evidence apparent
Deemed by the outcome
Of the immediate day.

There is more to this ruckus
Than what meets the eye.
Nevertheless, I became short-sighted
And True Reason's voice
Deafened within my soul.
The Mirror could not remind
Who I am.  I sank and sulked.  
In Your rest, I no longer made my bed.

Oh!  How I have forgotten You!
Oh!  How I failed to run to You
In faith!  "Though storms may come,
Still I will hold fast!"
At least, I hoped that would be so.
Yet, I remained confident
In my strength, but my weakness
Proved me crumbling.

Surrender my all?
I thought I had.
But in the presence of pressure
I secretly longed
For the sovereignty You possess.
My mind under duress
My spirit brittled with doubt
As I attempted claim to Your throne.

Dear soul,
Surrender my will;
Remember the One who created
Never slumbers nor sleeps.
Remember the futility of my ability
Without His breath.
Release my grip and trust 
In the One named Yahweh.

Dear God, One who I call
Father; may I lean into You
As I would with a daddy.
You hold everything in Your hands
Even when all my plans fall apart.
Though Your intentions seem unseen,
My lack of understanding births frustration,
You are still explicitly Lord.

This rose still breeds thorns,
And this garden, greatly seeded,
Finds thistles in the midst of its fruit.
Prune my heart, God, in this season.
Purpose the pain and the tears.
The weight of Your wonder found 
In the waiting of the beauty
You bloom in time.