The pine was mortal, once, like
other trees
That lift their boughs in the
air,
Wearing in summer its green fripperies.
In winter going bare
And desolate of birds.
But
that was in an old, forgotten age
Before the
words
Of Wise Men stung King Herod to such
rage
That his loud armies went
About the land to slay the Innocent.
Then there was consternation and no joy
In Israel. Joseph and Mary, Flying
Into
another country with the Boy
Came when the
day was dying,
Houseless to the edge of a
green wood
Where valorously stood
A
needled pine that every summer gave
Small
birds a nest.
And half its trunk was hollow
as a cave.
Said Joseph, "This is refuge. Let
us rest."
The pine tree, full of pity,
dropped its vast
Protective branches down
To cover them until the troops rode past,
Their weapons jingling, toward a different
town.
All night it hid them. When the
morning broke,
The Child awoke
And
blessed the pine, His steadfast lodging place.
"Let you and your brave race,
Who made
yourself My rampart and My screen
Keep
summer always and be ever green.
For you the
punctual seasons shall not vary,
But let
there throng
A thousand birds to you for
sanctuary
All winter long."
The story
tells us, too,
That if you cut a pine cone
part way through,
You find it bears within
it like a brand
The imprint of His
hand.
