Unfolding

The leaves erupt upon the trees
Then bloom, mature and quickly die.
And yet their cycles bring You joy,
For with their growth they sing Your praise.

Yet sterile every art,
And fruitless all designs
My heart and hand and mind contrives:
A barren tree, producing nil.

In music then, I hear commands:
To write because the act compels
My mind to ponder God and this
Will bring me closer to His will.

The words may never prompt to good
Another soul - and yet, perhaps,
The growth they spurred in me will count
For good in lives beside my own.