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.

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