Poetry Archives

Tree Crying

We stood so tall and proud long ago;

         lively branches moving to and fro.


Roots had been planted in dry ground;

         they went deep and the tree grew sound.



Then came that fateful day

         when people decided we were in the way.


Cutting the thrusting branches was for a common good.

         Instead of singing leaves, came a loud crash of wood.



The Spirit of God cut the tree and me.

         He needed to get my attention and set me free.


Before we could be used, we had to be cut down.

         Then cut up, and hauled out of town.



Our twists and knots were everywhere.

         There was nothing straight about us when bare.


Long pieces were formed and nailed together,

         readied for the tragic purpose of another.



Spikes were driven, the proud tree now crying.

         For on its solid wood, the Savior was dying.


Quihadi