Were tadpoles to fly or fireflies to sing, were toadstools to dance or bluebells to ring, such marvels of nature might dazzle or please, but none could compare with the rarest of trees. Though leafless it bears a single ripe fruit, surmounted by thorns and a pierced branch and root, whose pale withered casing with crimson is pied where knife-edge has left a fresh gash in the side. Though dying the fruit and deadly the tree, within them abides a deep mystery: while bitter the pressing, the vintage is sweet, and loaves it has leavened revive those who eat. The tree casts a shadow centuries long through suff'ring, despair, injustice, and wrong, yet earth-wombed and waiting, like dawn after night, the full-risen fruit yields a harvest of light. Creation is filled with wonders to tell, yet nothing it boasts can ever excel this marvel unfathomed by pen or by breath, a life-giving love that is stronger than death.