My sorrow’s flower was so small a joy
It took a winter seeing to see it as such.
Numb, unsteady, stunned at all the evidence
Of winter’s blind imperative to destroy,
I looked up, and saw the bare abundance
Of a tree whose every limb was lit and fraught with snow.
What I was seeing then I did not quite know
But knew that one mite more would have been too much.
~Christian Wiman “After a Storm” from Once in the West: Poems

Though a weak branch strains mightily to bear
a summer’s bounty of fruit without breaking, it will sustain the load.

Then comes winter wind and ice storms
and a snowflake becomes the mite too much.

Even so, a painful pruning is endured,
when even the strongest limbs are trimmed back,
urged to fearlessly grow on and be more fruitful.

I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. 
John 15: 1-2

This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”