Shall we be as the maple and oak,
Strew the earth with our gold, giving only bare boughs to the sky?
Nay, the pine stayeth green while the Winter growls sullenly by,
And doth not revoke
For soft days or stern days the pledge of its constancy.
Shall we not be
Also the same through all days,
Giving thanks when the battle breaks on us, in toil giving praise?
O Father who saw at the dawn,
That the folly of Pride would be the lush weed of our sin,