Wood hath hope.

When it’s cut, it grows green again,

and its boughs sprout clean again.

Wood hath hope.

Root and stock, although old and withered up,

and all sunk in earth corrupt, will revive.

Leaves return.

Water pure brings life to them,

and the tree lives young again.

Wood hath hope.

But for flesh waits death to strip the soul,

and breathe life out behold , all things end.

Mortal life’s like a dried up river bed,

we sleep, lay down our heads, to rise no more.

But ah strange thought:

if a man could rise again,

called home to a loving land,

we would have hope.

We would have hope.

Like a tree we’d grow green again,

and our boughs sprout clean again,

we would … have … hope.