Father

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?!