April 9, 2020
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This is a story that began long, long ago
I was a young oak tree in dark Missouri soil And like all other saplings I had dreams of
growing strong and tall But one day a rebel with a bullet in his chest Hung his rifle on my limbs and laid to rest And there beside me as the blood soaked to my roots the soldier sang A song of grace The heavy rifle bowed me over to the ground Two years I stayed this way until the rifle fell And in this manner for a hundred years I grew And all my dreams… not meant to be And then one day two men came with a cross cut saw They spoke of how my arch would hold a weight so strong And I feared not the blade for such a worthy cause and so I fell I gladly fell Three winter days aboard a northbound train Three more beneath the hewer’s careful blade And while he worked he praised my rich red grain Perhaps it was the soldier’s blood that day Now I’m the wooden arch that holds a mighty bell Three stocks before me cracked but I shall never fail Up in a tall cathedral high above my dreams of long ago And on Sunday mornings when I hear that sweet refrain I see the soldier’s face like it was yesterday Calling angels down from heaven with that hymn he softly sang Of God’s good grace

Tony wyaad

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