The Old Door

There's an old door in my garden,
Was put there long ago.
Rather then leave it for the trash,
I planted it so it might grow.

Dug deep I did that it might root,
And one morning I might see.
The hand of the Lord at work,
Of an old door birthed from a tree.

' Knock and it shall be open',
These words written so long ago.
So much lay beyond for you and me,
More then you'll ever know.

This door once hung on someones house,
Held by hinges made of brass.
Painted white, chipped and faded now,
With panes crystal clear, now just broken glass.

How many times did one knock,
Yet never enter in?
Held to all their selfish needs and pride,
And not forgiven of their sins.

Every year I will replant,
With hopes that with sun and rain.
It will bring forth little seedlings,
From the wood, the brass, the panes.

Then I shall place God's harvest,
Along the roadside, for you to take on your way home.
Then maybe you'll plant one of your own,
From the old door God had grown.

Linda Winchell