I was lying there in the garden, almost asleep. A man came up the pathway, stopped and
placed his hands on the gate. He looked around and asked if the garden was mine. I told him it
was not mine, but I was keeping it for my Master. He asked if I knew much about gardening.
“Well, of course, I do!”, I replied.
I told him that I had been to the best schools of gardening, and would probably forget more
about gardening in one day than he would learn in a year. Inundated him with a deluge of
information from my vast knowledge of gardening. I felt that would surely quiet my unwelcome
There was a moment of silence. Perhaps I had been too hard on him. I felt justified, though, he
did disturb my rest.
He looked at me and said:
“Have you been a gardener so long, yet without fruit?
Do you know all about the soils, yet have not tilled one foot of furrow?
Are all the seeds familiar to you, but you have not put one into the ground?
See, the weeds outnumber the leaves on the trees; the thistles are more abundant than the
What kind of Husbandman would let his masters’ garden fall into such disarray?
You boast of being a gardener but have no fruit for all your knowledge.
How sad for you when the Master comes to judge the fruit of your labor.”
I sat there in stunned silence, at a complete loss for words. I noticed as he vanished before my
very eyes that the gate on which he had been resting was bloody from wounds that had pierced