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by Frances Flaming Hiebert

Like trees in the woodlands, and trees in the glen
The trees that grow straight, and those that bend
Are the home of the world's songsters, the oak, the maple and the aspen.

And to the weary wanderer shade they can afford.
To stretch his weary limbs and grateful praise reward,
To God for blessing thus, the earth with trees his spoken word.

God made the flowers, God made the bees,
but he hadn't finished his creation until he made the trees,
until he dressed them in leaves of green, gently ruffled by the breeze.