The Olive Tree

My appearance has been praised and lamented, Admired and sneered. I grow as old as the oak, And go back to whence I came. No man knows my story or my sorrow. I am the olive tree. I have been used and harvested, Nurtured and burned. The Greeks have hated and revered me, Suffered beneath me and sang my rapture. No two men have ever seen me the same. I am the olive tree. I was in the Garden of Gethsamne, And heard the prayers of Jesus. I saw the traitor Judas, And felt the weakness of man. But the Lord still loved. Can I, Who am a creation of the Lord, do less? I am the olive tree. I can only be what I am, Though I grow and change daily. Gnarled and knotted, I am as old as the coming of man. I have become the symbol of peace, And the offering of justice. I am the olive tree.