Out of a million seeds that fall in the forest
How many of them grow, pushing two tender leaves through the black earth?
Out of those few, how many become saplings, thin trunks wiry and strong
Like young boys with supple limbs?
And then—such a small fraction—one or two become trees.
But He made sure you did.
He sent rain for you, soaking deep your roots.
He parted the canopy above you, sending a shaft of sunlight to green your leaves.
He walled you in with His invisible hand, protecting you from clumsy feet and gnawing teeth.
Until you grew strong.
His eye was on you. He singled you out from the millions
He made you grow.
And then when you were tall, solid, warm with life,
He removed His protecting hand. He led men to you.
He opened their eyes to see your straight trunk, your strength.
And they chopped you down.
And they nailed Him to you.
Did He think about your life, as His drained away?
Did He remember how He had spared you from every harm
So you could be a part of this great redemption?
Your trunk, soaked in His sacred blood.
Your sap-blood weeping, sticky, on His strong shoulders.
1 thought on “The Tree: A Poem for Good Friday”
Beautiful. Thank you.