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
Is hardly anyone’s at all,
I suppose, except by faith.

A man gets to wondering,
Between bulldozers and the
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
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.

Arthur O. Roberts in Life Prayers from Around the World by Elias Amidon, Elizabeth Roberts