Lord save us all from old age and broken health and a hope tree

"Lord save us all from old age and broken health and a hope tree that has lost the faculty of putting out blossoms." — these words of Mark Twain are not merely a plea for divine mercy, but a cry from the depths of the human spirit. They are a prayer against decay — not only of the body, but of the soul, of the sacred faculty of hope, which, once lost, leaves a person living, yet no longer truly alive. For Twain knew that the greatest tragedy is not death itself, but the slow death of hope, that silent fading of the inner light which once guided us through our days.

In the language of the ancients, one might say: the soul that ceases to hope is like a winter tree, stripped of its green, barren before the sun. Old age and sickness may wither the body, yet so long as the hope tree within still bears its blossoms, life retains its fragrance. But when that sacred tree stands desolate, its roots cold in the soil of despair, then even the strength of youth cannot revive the heart. Thus Twain’s prayer is both tender and wise: to be spared not merely from the infirmities of the flesh, but from the greater infirmity of a spirit that no longer dares to dream.

Consider the tale of Cicero, the Roman orator, who, in his final years, though weary and aged, continued to write, to speak, to fight for the freedom of his people. His body weakened, his nation faltered, yet his hope tree never ceased to flower. He believed that truth, though crushed to the earth, would rise again. And though his enemies silenced him with the sword, his words lived on, echoing through centuries. From him we learn that old age is no enemy when the heart remains fertile with purpose.

Yet there are others — kings and scholars, common men and women — who lost their blossoms long before their time. They grew weary not from toil, but from the loss of belief that tomorrow could still bring beauty. Think of the once-great Napoleon, exiled to the lonely rock of Saint Helena. When he ceased to dream of empire, when his hope tree withered beneath the cold winds of defeat, his spirit broke, and his death followed soon after. His downfall was not his defeat at Waterloo — it was the death of his inner spring.

Therefore, let us tend our hope tree as the gardener tends his orchard. Let us water it with faith, nourish it with gratitude, and guard it from the frost of bitterness. Even when our bodies ache and the world seems cruel, we must not allow the heart to harden. For as long as we can imagine something brighter — a new morning, a reconciled friend, a song yet to be sung — our tree still bears life.

Twain’s plea to the Lord, then, is not born of fear, but of reverence for the divine spark that makes life worth living. He asks to be preserved from that greatest poverty — a life without renewal, without wonder. He warns us that broken health may confine the limbs, but a broken spirit imprisons the soul. And so he calls upon the Almighty to grant us not eternal youth, but eternal bloom — that we might forever have within us the strength to begin again.

The lesson is clear: protect your hope as you would your most precious possession. Do not let the disappointments of life turn your heart to stone. Seek beauty in the small and the simple — a child’s laughter, a sunrise, a friend’s forgiveness. Keep learning, dreaming, striving, even in the twilight of your days. For the one who keeps his hope tree blossoming walks always in spring, though winter may surround him.

And so, my child, if ever you find yourself weary, remember this: the Lord’s truest mercy is not in sparing us from age or pain, but in granting us the grace to hope still. Let your hope tree grow tall and radiant, and even when its blossoms fall, know that new ones will bloom again in season. For as long as the heart can dream, you shall never truly grow old.