The tree stood tall and proud,
As it offered the woman its shade.
It tried so hard to protect her.
For, it felt she was afraid.
She leaned against its trunk.
Her sobs rustled through the leaves,
Sighing lightly like the breeze;
Echo's of a heart that grieves.
The tears ran like a river
And watered deep the roots,
Bringing forth the blossoms
That would later bear the fruits.
The tree stood tall and proud
As the soldiers checked it out.
"I think this one will do.
Cut it down," he heard them shout.
They cut and carved upon that tree;
Stripped it of blossom and bark.
Then, they made a rugged cross.
That's the day the world turned dark.
As Jesus hung upon that tree,
He was the last fruit it would bear.
For, Jesus was the fruit of God.
He was longsuffering and full of care.
The tree no longer stood proud,
As the blood of the Lamb did stain.
It bent with the weight of its shame
And it wanted to weep from the pain.
Jesus whispered to the tree,
"From this day forth shall you cry."
Thus grew the weeping willow
That had watched the Savior die.
The Weeping Willow Easter Poem © Claytia Doran
bbabe at 1s.net