In the garden known as Faithland wide,
Old oaks stand tall, their arms open wide.
Fresh saplings spring from the fertile ground,
Each has a story, a journey profound.

Old oaks boast of roots deep and grand,
Guardians they claim, of this sacred land.
Their leaves have felt autumn’s cooling breath,
And endured through winter’s symbolic death.

Saplings listen, eyes shining bright,
New to this land, their roots not as tight.
Early Christians, they’re labeled to be,
Eager to grow, so much yet to see.

“Ah,” say the oaks, “You’ve much to learn,
Of storms and droughts, the way seasons turn.”
They share their wisdom but sometimes, oh well,
They forget how it was when they too were frail.

Saplings feel the weight of each whispered word,
Judgments hidden behind scriptures heard.
“Are we not also part of God’s plan?
Don’t we too belong in this Faithland?”

Then comes the wind, the Whisperer true,
Breathing into each a lesson due.
“Each has a role in Faithland to play,
Old roots and new must help lead the way.”

Saplings and oaks in silence meet,
Both essential for Faithland complete.
The oaks then realize, shedding pride away,
Every tree was a sapling once, finding its way.

So grows Faithland, in unity and love,
Guided by the Gardener from high above.
Old oaks now mentor as saplings explore,
In a land where God’s love is the ever-present core.

In Faithland, where life’s mysteries unfurl,
There’s a lesson here for the entire world.
Old and young, rooted and new,
All have a part in the tapestry God drew.