The church a garden is <br />In which believers stand, <br />Like ornamental trees <br />Planted by God's own hand: <br />His Spirit waters all their roots, <br />And every branch abounds with fruits. <br /> <br />But other trees there are, <br />In this enclosure grow; <br />Which, though they promise fair, <br />Have only leaves to show: <br />No fruits of grace are on them found, <br />They stand but cumb'rers of the ground. <br /> <br />The under gard'ner grieves, <br />In vain his strength he spends, <br />For heaps of useless leaves, <br />Afford him small amends: <br />He hears the Lord his will make known, <br />To cut the barren fig-trees down. <br /> <br />How difficult his post, <br />What pangs his bowels move, <br />To find his wishes crossed, <br />His labors useless prove! <br />His last relief is earnest prayer, <br />Lord, spare them yet another year. <br /> <br />Spare them, and let me try <br />What farther means may do; <br />I'll fresh manure apply, <br />My digging I'll renew <br />Who knows but yet they fruit may yield! <br />If not--'tis just, they must be felled. <br /> <br />If under means of grace, <br />No gracious fruits appear; <br />It is a dreadful case, <br />Though God may long forbear: <br />At length he'll strike the threatened blow, <br />And lay the barren fig-tree low.<br /><br />John Newton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-barren-fig-tree/
