Oh how they reach! the trees of Spring,
yearning, stretching for God and King.
"They will not last" slung at their leaves,
"Winter comes with no reprieve."
Look not there, gentle wood.
The future is not for you to know.
Today you must spend your life,
only then can you grow.
"Why progress, if you shall fall?
The axe is laid at the root."
Do not bend and make your haste,
one day soon, you'll see the fruit.
"You raise yourself each day,
and with purpose you strive.
How foolish you are!
Your King will soon die!"
Hark not foul speech.
You must face attack.
You'll grow, small tree,
The cross upon His back.
He builds, you see?
He makes all things new.
So reach, small tree,
for the one who made you.