If only busted-up soil can be planted, the flat-tilled earth bereft of rocks before it can yield life, then what of the heart, the hard-hided, boulder-strewn heart of man, of this man? If only the soil of the broken heart will bring forth fruit, then perhaps we ought welcome it, and the tear-dropping rain that so often follows, and peer ahead in hope of the harvest. But when will the last stone be loosed? When will the breaking be complete?
God only knows, and so we cry out to Him, and perhaps give thanks that we are not so numb not to feel the gouge and turn of the heart’s own soil, the tilling ground where what was to be might yet become.