Ripening the Fruit

On the broad plains of Heaven
perfected people sing.
With joyful hope they make their plans
the earthbound home to bring.
But as they work they know full well
that he who sows each tree below
has the final say, the yes or no.

Friend and foe, both high and low,
all dance an age-old dance;
they step and step and step again
to play God's game of chance.
For as they work they know full well
that health and wealth will ebb, will flow;
that their final day is for God to know.

In the high courts of Heaven
bright people ponder still,
as they feel the fruit which softens slow
in the orchard of God's will.
Theirs is the task the time to tell,
to ring the bell, to call again,
to a seasoned soul sing the great Amen.

On the darker side of dusk
as evening falls for all,
one soul awaits the welcome light,
for sweeter fruit to fall.
A whisper comes, a still small voice:
Wait, wait it says, the fruit will drop;
when this soul is ripe it may crown the crop.