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The Olive Tree

Give freely like the olive tree,

whose fecundity is rife,

whose fruits spring from its shoots,

and oils bless new life,

whose branches shade us from Sun's scorn,

and trunks stand to witness strife.

Give freely like the olive tree,

its testament: His life.

In the sunlit corridors of His childhood,

did He hear His mother’s weeping?

Did He drift off to creaks,

dust coating His feet,

in the early hours of His sleeping?

Did the suns rays,

which cast upon His face,

transluce in God His feeling;

or did the olive tree harvest

pressed into oils harness

the gift of His oppression and fearing?

With trees bowing down,

thorns witnessing His crown,

and Nazarene children jeering,

did He seek out a solitude,

no Earth or Sky could protrude,

to hone the Grace of God, kneeling?

Or did Joseph’s jest,

and calm caress,

carve out a sanctuary from this needing;

and did the scent of saplings,

who harkened His babblings,

infuse the Love of God, a seedling?