Guardian of Divinity

The wounded tree is weeping now,

Suffering from Nature's blows

And the uncaring souls of men.

The grace of blossoms it bestows

On pilgrim, devotee, and saint,

Cooling with its verdant shade

Those who have come in offering

And under its arching branches prayed.

Shall we who bore her touch, her love

Do nothing in its needful hour,

Saying, "It is but a tree

(Ascribing to ourselves such power!)

And sooner or later it must die,"

She who gave it to my care

Who guides us on the sunlit way

Of our least acts is most aware

And our neglect or apathy.

Thy splendour dawn in us to see

No mere tree but a sacred fane

Guarding the ageless mystery.

Then let us willingly agree,

To work in newfound harmony,

And through our work protect and serve

This guardian of divinity.