For there is hope of a tree,
if it be cut down,
that it will sprout again,
and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.
Though the root thereof wax old in the earth,
and the stock thereof die in the ground;
Yet through the scent of water it will bud,
and bring forth boughs like a plant.
Once there was an oak tree
that clung to a crag on a mountainside.
The wind swept its crest,
and the snows and rains tore at its soil.
Its roots ran along a pathway
and were trampled by the feet of men.
But the rain and the snows an down the mountain,
and the oak tree was dying of drought.
Patiently and persistently
its underground tendrils and gone
forth in every direction for relief.
All its power was put into the quest
by which it would save its life.
And, by and by,
the roots reached the mountain spring.
The faithful stream that touched the lips of man and beast
ran up the trunk and laved the branches
and gave new life to the utmost twig.
The tree stood in the same place;
it met the same storms;
it was trodden by the same hurrying feet.
but it was planted by the rivers of water
and its leaf could not wither.
Out into the same old life
you must go today as ever,
but down underneath you can be nourished
by the everlasting streams of God.
Travelers returning from Palestine report
that beneath the streets of Shechem
there are rivers flowing.
During the daytime it is impossible
to hear the murmuring of the waters,
because of the noise.
But when night comes
and the clamor dies away
then can be heard
the music of the hidden rivers.
Are there not “hidden rivers” flowing
under the crowded streets of our 20th century life?
If we can be assured that there is still the music
of deep-flowing waters beneath
all the noise and tumult of the working hours,
we can walk the way of the conqueror.
Listen for the river of peace . . . Today
With my prayers, desiring yours, Leslie