Tree
Fragile limbs broken and scattered.
Powerful trunk beaten and battered.
Your very nourishment,
incised from its source.
To die and to dry,
wither in the heat.
Severed beyond recognition,
by unfeeling steel,
or consumed in the flame,
till naught is left but black brokenness…
A miserable fate,
a meaningless existence.
If you had a mind,
is that what you would think?
Yet could you foresee,
A higher plan, a purpose, a destiny?
That one such as you
would hold in its sturdy form,
The Maker of all:
a new baby born.
And cradle to sleep
The Prince of Peace.
Another of you,
A ship would become
To hold the fishermen of souls.
And whose planks did uphold
He who is One, and yet Three.
The Maker of that beautiful sea.
2007-12-20
04:21:09
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13 answers
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asked by
Spiffs C.O.
4
in
Poetry