We are, O Lord, beneath a Tree,
Whose roots are deeper than the soul,
While spears of grass we haply grow,
These blades will dance cross every knoll,
And sever, as they whirl and spin,
Each heart that comes within their sphere
From all they know and all they could,
That by Your leave You’ll call them near.
Then leaves upon this Tree will form
To overshadow all the earth;
But still this Tree spent not a word
Nor deed to claim to all its birth.