What Was My Fault?
One night, in a dream I woke,
Dwindling near Bethany I was;
There to the edge of the dusty road,
Lone standing, I saw, a tree's carcass.
A fig tree it was that I saw,
Shrieved, laconic, and dried;
Grief in his heart profound,
A strange call to his place, I went,
To tell a tale yet untold;
"Pray tarry a while", said he,
From there wearily he called.,
It was one fine bright morn
When with many a disciple he came;
The Son of the Holy God he was,
Jesus, the Nazarene, his name.
He was hungry I guess,
For he, a while stopped by me;
Wandering his bloody eyes upon my branches,
To look for figs, on a fruitless tree.
No fruits there were on my branches,
For figs, it was not the season;
But he..... was angry and peeved,
And cursed me for that reason.
"May you never bear fruits again",
With a rage he muttered.
And I, that very sorry instant,
Became dry, sere, and withered.
WHAT WAS MY FAULT IN THAT?
WHAT WRONG DID I DO?
It was not the season for figs,
So bare, my branches too.
That tree with a mourning heart,
Made me think of God once more;
Holy, pure, and judge I thought he was,
But this way I never thought before.
What kind of thing was that,
To do to an innocent fig tree;
That it withered away instantly,
What God this Almighty be?
What kind of god was that?
What was there to inspire in his son?
Cursed a tree to death and decay,
Without any flagrant reason.