Gazing at my picture book,
one which someone cast aside,
I spied a picture of a tree . . .
the “Holy Land” the title said,
though surely nothing there
remains from Jesus’ day . . . .
nothing but perhaps that tree
believed to be perhaps
a remainder of a time long past
but burned into the heart and soul
If this tree could talk,
would it tell of a man who leaned against it,
one who smiled,
one who loved,
one who willingly died for me?
Could it have been a limb
from that very tree
on which the deed was done?
by Martha L Shaw – Copyright 11-26-2012