The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
When will the olive tree be free,
its ancient roots,gnarled,twisted
earth-deep into its promised land,
stubbornly ignores its history;
With nectar,embittered and sour
the branches break off,with no bud
the unleafed tree provides no shade,
its verdant green,a dormant brown;
And yet the covenant remains,
the gardener and husbandry
daily engraft shoots with new life-
soon,will the olive tree,be free.
Fuller story at Romans 11