Lord, it may seem odd
That I should pray here, now.
But when I plant trees
I’ve things to say to God.
These little trees are Yours,
You know, not just mine.
A redwood grove twelve inches
tall
Is hardly anyone’s at all,
I suppose, except by faith.
A man gets to wondering,
Between bulldozers and the
fears
Of war, why look ahead
A hundred, even thirty years?
I don’t know … except
As these trees grow
I hope my great grandchildren
Or someone’s boys and girls
Play hide-and-seek
Among the towering trunks
And chattering squirrels.
I hope they hear beauty
In the singing boughs
And birds. I hope they
Breathe clean forest air
And find Your peace.
When my hands press moist
soil
Carefully about the roots
I feel Your life and love,
I feel a world reborn.
O, God, heal the scars
Of earth with trees,
And not with snags
and thorn.