The Prophecy of the Tree 



O, thou wondrous being 

 Made in Jehovah's image 

 Who calleth thyself man! 



With a song thou liftest thy brawny arms 

 And the axe sinks into my heart. 

 Know thou, O vain and boastful one 

 Who laugheth as I fall beneath thy stroke 

 When thy body shall have crumbled into dust, 

 I will form the threshold of a home 

 Where tender woman croons a lullaby 

 To sleeping babes encradled in my arms. 

 When the waving grass above thy head 

 Sighs in forgotten desolation, 

 My sturdy planks will stand between 

 Thy sons and the horrors of the deep. 

 When thy very name is banished from men's lips 

 From altars hewn from me, will incense rise 

 To the everlasting God. 



Idah McGlone Gibson. 



