by William B. Adcock

O, thou beautiful fig,
Thy boughs, all full of leafy green
Bowing brilliantly in the barest breeze;
Thou desirest by all to be seen.

Supple, tender art thy branches
Stretching, full of vigor, tow’rd Heaven
In choicest of plots, thou hast been planted.
Now Pride: that be thy secret leaven.

O, thou beautiful fig,
Thou hast poured out all thy strength
Into sewing thy long verdant robe
And growing, growing its emerald length.

Thou dost clothe thyself in thy splendor,
But thy branches betray thy fruitlessness
All thy efforts Man’s parents resemble
As they, too, covered their shameful nakedness

O, thou beautiful fig,
Hast thou not known?
Has it not been told to thee?
Thy foliage is not thy duty alone.

In flashes green thy leaves brightly shine; 
In bright morning light, before the Bright Morning Star
Thy hubris! Thy blind selfish self-righteousness!
Ignorant of thy true duty thou art!

O, thou beautiful fig, 
Thou hast in thy haste 
Failed to produce even the smallest bud;
None, therefore, will ever again thy precious fruit taste.

For in thy Visitation
By One True Master of All,
Thou’st been by Heaven’s scales weighed
And been found wanting, most of all.

Woe, thou barren fig,
May it be thy failure to produce 
Cause thy branches ever to wither
As a sign for the wise to deduce

That even when seems not the season,
Each tree must have at least begun
To grow just a little—just a little fruit,
To hear his Master lovingly say, “Well done.”

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William B. Adcock is a follower of Christ Jesus first, as well as a devoted husband and a teacher at a Christian private school. He is building his writing portfolio by sharing poems and short stories in the hopes of bringing honor and glory to his King.