Father, is it wistful, the thought, to be born a tree…
My pennant a bark of strength, beauty, and serenity!
To plant my feet beneath Thy sacred earthen ground
And guard thy torment without a sound.
With a message of brotherhood written on my leaves,
For all humanity, broadcast to the breeze
And the seeds of peace cast the sea
Sap wars of man; deliver true victory!
Then to depart this world from which I sprout
Begetting a dozen seedlings –hear them shout?
Their heritage of Father, their respect for Thee,
Through branches of wisdom as if to please;
Thy thoughts, Thy dreams, Thy future’s hope
That now lie dormant, buried in the slope
From which they sprung with vigor and pride,
Two Thousand Years before I died.
How wonderful it would truly be,
If You had ordained me an oaken tree?!