I was told it was just a giant weed of a tree.
I looked at the sycamore, should it be felled?
Then I remembered how Zacchaeus had used one to see.
He was short so he just climbed.

A tax collector, no one rated him.
My tree interrupted the view.
Zacchaeus’s one immortalised him.
Now I will keep mine in review.

Zacchaeus means pure.
Blessed are the pure of heart.
He gave away half his wealth, his pride to cure.
And pay back those he had cheated as a start.

He had been rich in wealth.
Now he was enriched in spiritual health.