It grows cold here sometimes and the nights overstay their welcome. There IS a hunter in these woods; prowling like that of a lion. But he knows where to find me in the stillness of my stature. He comes to me with ax in hand; to "talk," and for me to listen. He is coming today much like yesterday; mirroring the days that preceded our dawn today. He has come to strip away the beauty, to cheat those seeking refuge and shelter in God's grace and mercy. But attempt after attempt; cut after endless cut, he cannot have what he longs for; his loss being clearly defined in the years of the past.
Above the ground I am reduced to nothing; pity and scorn from the eyewitnesses that dance around the base of my trunk. But below the surface, underneath the cold soil and earth lies an anchor; roots of strength and confidence; roots that he cannot steal away or barter for; roots driven through and intertwined within an abundant spring; my living water.
Growth is inevitable. Shoots reach for the stars; for YOUR warmth; the loving embrace of a FATHER. In desperation, my roots hold steadfast to a time without separation from your love.
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