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The cherry that I planted close by the brick church wall. 
That cherry tree is not one wood, not all one wood at all. 
It sits upon a different stock, protecting from disease. 
What sits atop that lower stock flowers finer blossom, grows greener leaf, 
protected from diseasing rot by stronger wood beneath.

That wood first stood as chosen, the gardener's true delight. 
So finely grown, until that day, for cherry's sake, his royal crown was cut. 
His bark was not like cherry bark, but mixed, with perfect golden strap, 
yet also striped and slashed, as though with cruel wounding strike, with bruising whip-cut lashed.

And when first planted by that wall, his root blocked by foundation stone, 
it did not seem he grew at all, 
yet root was quietly reaching down until around all hardened soil, 
that softer wetter ground was found, and living water sapped each branch, 
and each branch grew him tall.

And now this beauty, grafted in, displays the splendour of his spring, 
as long as it remains within that bruised and wounded saving tree, 
which gardener's love has given.
Yes, which gardener's love had first conceived, then planted low this mercy tree, this saving tree he loved, but gave for love of cherry tree, 
and gave for you and me.

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