A withered tree by the long stone wall
Stood cold, and black, and bare;
I lent a helping hand because
I wanted it to share
The joy of all the garden's way...
The song of birds, and Thee,
My Lord. I felt so glad to know
It lived because of me.
If we could only have the power
To pull aside Life’s curtain,
And look down past the halls of Time,
I think it almost certain,
That in gray and lonely corners there
Some drooping forms we’d see
Of weeping, desolate figures
Like the withered tree.
Yet some of these once saddened forms
And dismal silhouettes
Today are radiant pictures
Not easy to forget...
For the Hand that limned their beauty
Took for a brush, a smile,
Using only pastel colours,
And Kindness all the while.
Gentle actions, softest words,
For these all played their part,
Arising from the Artist’s palette...
From an understanding heart.
A heart that told of the good God’s love
For a world so steeped in sin,
A love that crucified His son
That we might enter in
To the golden gates of His great home...
And so we turn, each one,
To see who hanged with our load of sin.
Can we hear? God's voice says, “This! My son!"
“Did he die but for nothing?
"His cross marks the sky!
“Is it nothing? To any?
"All ye who pass by?”
