My brothers and I stand out on a hill,
Our gaze looks far over the land;
We don't have a way to go where we will;
While we live, we must stay where we stand.

Some cousins can thrive beside a clear stream;
They grow old there and scatter their seed.
For us to be so is naught but a dream;
We exist to be killed for a need.

Many were taken, their space now but sod;
Those most shapely were first sacrificed,
Their deaths offered up to an old pagan god,
Though some say that they honor Christ.

We live for a while, in a house or a hall;
But too soon, then, we wither and fall.
Our purpose fulfilled, we're soon cast away;
Can you guess what we were in our day?