It’s said that he cut Thor’s oak down Before the pagan crowd, The Sacred Oak of Geismar which, When felled, revealed itself to be Rotten and decayed. It’s said he thought his work a failure In the Frisian land, And went back as an old man to Complete what he had scarce begun And met there with his death. It’s said that he died at his work, On the day of Pentecost, Come to meet with and confirm Believers, and yet finding there An ambush and his death. It’s said he helped the Frankish king Join forces with the Pope And rise to raise the Roman reign Again from its rot and decay And make a holy rule. It’s said he took his holy name From doing such good deeds, And if his is contested fame, His legacy still surely stands For whom he came to serve. If oak trees can, though tall and proud, Still be rotten inside, If dying can bring in new life, If hope can grow from stumps of trees, Boniface stands tall. If good deeds are not measured by The goodness of the doer or The eyes of modern righteousness But on the one for whom they’re done, We cannot judge at all, But can just hope to one day see A taller oak, a grander tree Than any we have ever seen And in its branches all our seeds We sowed in dying earth.