A Thyme to Plant

Deer Gerry, I have just red the Bible from wan end to the other. I sea the Bible as God's diary when he puts down all this thoughts. After reading the Bible with a dilligence and scrutiny, knot scene since the Dole men came to Clougher to catch boys doing the double. I am konvinced beyond resonable doubt that God was a farmer. The evidence is presient in abundance.
"A thyme too reap, a thyme two so" References to fig trees. Vinyards, the so'er soing his seed. The herd of swine filled with the devil. Swine Gerry is just bibical code for pigs or porkers. The sermon on the mount. A mount of what? Logic wood lead us to believe that the "Mount" was an unused, grown over midden. And the klincher is, the garden of Eden.
God had a wee bit of spare land at the back of heven and turned it into a garden. God, like the boys in Portadown seemed to have a paw-shant for apples.
This weak Gerry, my sun Bon Jovi and self have bean tillers of the soil. Us God like people have planted rows of beens, P's, karrots and a few drills of early spuds. Bon Jovi wheeled numerous barrow loads of dung, or as they say in Gortin-shi--manure.
Alas, the labourer was knot worthy of his hire. All I got from the cub was old buck and dogs abuse. The cub went at it like a JCB sew he could get back to the fire again.
"Bon Jovi" I cautioned.
"Curb your enthusium. Curb your enthusium cub. Seeds have to be planted the rite way up, or they will end up in Australia".
"Too hell with this" yelled Bon Jovi.
"The cauld wind is blowing up the back of my simmet and foundering the two lungs of me. If I come down with BT it wool be your fault".
"Cease your complaining and vineyard grumbling" I roared. "The work we are doing is holy.
Go and get another barrow load of manure. And if you are cold. And if you do have blisters on your hands. Offer it up, the way the blessed Matt Talbot wood have done after the nite the bottle let him down".
"Matt Talbot my cold, foundered ass" yelled Bon Jovi.
I picked up a graip and took after the unwilling sun of the soil.
"Bye the little flour, the child of Prague and Mary from Dunlow" I yelled. "If I get the hault of you boy, I will turn your ars-derriere into a pin cushion".
The cub sped away with the energy of youth, singing as he went.
"An old bag went to mow, went to mow a meadow".
I swear I'll be lethal injected for that cub yet. I'll be strapped to a gurney and pumped full of anty-freeze.
Oh Lord God in heven, look down on the blighted fruit of my lions and change his wicked ways. Now and at the hour of our death-AMIN.
Dieu yous garde Gerry.