Times shades

A span
From begining to the end
The register was called
Our hands did then ascend
Our meaning toil
It gave us roots in which to grow
Some had airs and pretences
Some earth under finger nail
Some to blossom some to fail
Some mighty oak
Some saplings snapped and frail
And there was mortality
Nailed on a cross for each
 That expired was but a trial
And faith was not exclusive
For that stairway to heaven
To die and degradation to achieve
Its steps just reinvention
Of form, not just what we have been
That's what I believe
But some cant see wood for trees