From thorns and thistles I’ll grow a garden
With muck and mire I’ll make fertile soil
A tower I’ll erect of sticks and stones
And mortar, I’ll fashion from sand and water.

Impossible task one may say
Or perhaps the odds are against me
But let me try
Don’t cut me down.

Not yet
Don’t cut me down
Let me bruise my fingers upon thorns and thistles
‘Til they quicken to the bone.

Plod through muck and mire
Stop
Start again
Let me stumble over sticks and stones.

Fall
And arise...
Work my fingers in sand and water shaping what I can
Let me try one more time.

Don’t cut me down
But if I should tell You I will no longer try
To make a garden grow from thorns and thistles
And make fertile soil from muck and mire.

Then cut me down
Or if I should tell You I cannot build a tower
Of sticks and stones
Or fashion mortar from sand and water .

Then cut me down
Or if You should hear me say I’ve given up...
That I no longer will try
Or that the odds are against me.

Then cut me down
Please cut me down.