Tree Primeval

Upon the mount I stand, a tree of eld,
Deformed, but wise, and humbly bent to earth
From brutal storms that cow the bravest man.
This eve I watch a most ferocious storm,
That cruelly savors thrashing wheat in fields,
And proudly floods the streams with pouring rain,
While thunder loudly crashes high above.
But hark! The frenzied storm now fades away,
The gray and dark, foreboding clouds withdraw
And in their place resides the golden sun.

The world, now peaceful, heaves a grateful sigh
While birds praise Him who shields us from all harm,
The wheat in every field lifts up its head,
Casts up its flaxen face toward heaven near,
Then shines like stars in God’s celestial skies.
The air is wild but sweet, and smells of rain,
Pervading grass and woods, as well as sky.
But, I, unlike the rest, can nothing give,
For I cannot raise up my head, for pain,
My raucous voice at all times creaks and groans,
And I am nothing much to look at now.
But God cares not for pretty looks, nor songs,
Appealing though they seem; He looks in hearts,
For what He wants is love, respect, and joy.