The Soldier and the Oak

This is a story that began long, long ago I was a young oak the in dark Missouri soil And like all other saplings I had dreams of growing strong and tall One day a rebel with a bullet in his chest Hung his rifle on my limbs and laid to rest And there beside me as the blood soaked to my roots The soldier sang, a song of grace The heavy rifle bowed me over to the ground Two years I stayed this way until the rifle fell And in this manner for a hundred years I grew All my dreams, not meant to be Then one day two men came with a crosscut saw They spoke of how my arch would hold a weight so strong And I feared not the blade for such a worthy cause And so I fell, I gladly fell Three winter days aboard a northbound train Three more beneath a hewer's careful blade And while he worked, he praised my rich, red grain Perhaps it was the soldier's blood that day Now I'm the wooden arch that holds a mighty bell Three stocks before me cracked, but I shall never fail Up in a tall cathedral high above my dreams of long ago And on Sunday mornings when I hear that sweet refrain I see the soldier's face like it was yesterday Calling angels down from heaven with that hymn He softly sang, Of God's good grace.