I pray to God in heaven, like a steeple here am I,
My leaves and branches reach to catch the rain from out of the sky,

Thru summer's heat and winter's cold I stand, stoically, growing old,
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, deer so shy and hunters so bold,

Master, You knew best, when with care You put me here,
At the crest of the hill, with the west wind at my back, I feel no fear,

I've spread my seeds, both near and far, over several generations,
Rooted to this spot, I stand with solitary patience,

Children, whom I've known, of late no longer try to climb me,
Grown adults, they now have grandchildren by their progeny,

If the woodsman comes to fell me and the sawyer's blade should be my fate,
Let me become a bountiful table where the hungry may each fill his plate.

                                                         by D. Edgar Murray