Upon An Ancient Sycamore A Sturdy Bough

Upon an ancient sycamore
A sturdy bough there grew,
And foster’d myriads of leaves
That hid itself from view.
When winter came with angry breath,
The bough was brown and bare;
Gone were the summer-hearted leaves
That once were nurtured there.

Thus with vain man. In summer days
The world around him clings;
It guiles his heart and o’er his faults
A leafy mantle flings;
It blinds him, till the bitter day
Of pain and death comes on;
And leaves him, then, to bear his woes
Unaided and alone.

Not so the lowly man who walks
The path the Jesus trod,
Who daily learns to die; whose “life
Is hid with Christ in God.”
The world between his soul and God
Can never intervene;
In joy or sorrow, life or death,
His hope is ever green.