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, fresh Spring air,
Hands caked in dirt and grime.

It's hard to feel glum in the garden,
Birds chirping high in the trees,
Potting up Pansies so cheery and bright,
Hair tugged about on the breeze.

Cutting the deadwood and turning the earth,
Allowing the sun to get through,
Seems to clear my cluttered mind,
And lifts my spirits too.

Thank you Lord for my garden,
Humble and small though it be,
It's a place where so often I've felt You 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, Oh Lord!
Abandoned.  Betrayed.  Denied.

One Sunday morn in a garden,
The Son of God rose from the grave,
Bringing salvation and mercy and grace,
To the ones He came to save.