I stand alone, a mighty palm,
In desert lands I promise balm
To weary men with dusty feet
Who rest under my shade so sweet.
My fruit I give without a thought
To whether it is sold or bought.
When victors shout their battle cry
And raise my leaves up to the sky,
My heart within – for one I hold –
Swells with pride in sunlight’s gold.
But once I saw, for I am tall,
And look over the city walls,
My branches laid on dusty ground,
By men and women swarming ‘round,
Before a man upon a colt.
The image gave this tree a jolt.
“Who is this man?” I thought as He
Rode past the throngs so joyfully
That sang out psalms and shouted praise.
“Hosanna!”, “Bless’d!”, “Ancient of Days!”
And as I watched, two men drew near
And rested in my shade so dear.
“He’s here today,” one man announced,
“I reckon soon Rome will be trounced.
For if this man can raise the dead
And out of air can conjure bread,
Then He can bring empires down
And gain for Him a kingly crown.”
“No, no, my friend,” the other said,
And with a smile shook his head.
“This man has power, that is true,
But won’t wield it like others do.
He heals the sick, strengthens the weak,
And says His kingdom we must seek.
Just like this palm,” he looked at me,
“Which gives to all – completely free –
Fruit and shade which can refresh,
He gives to souls – in earthly flesh –
The chance to be with God above
Who – while we sin – still shows us love.
This ‘Son of Man,’ is God on earth
And promises a second birth
To any who will follow Him
And leave behind his life of sin.”