I close my eyes and see the black,
Then formless patterns in the dark:
Great jagged lines and rolling hills,
From deep beyond my formless thought,
My mind a theatre of disrupted lines,
That play the fool in checkered falls,
That tumble into swarms of light,
That fray great epics into seconds,
They echo at attentions call:
Bygone, bygone.

The raging fire of Summer licks the earth,
Leaving famine in its wake.
Autumn plummets and rolls into winter,
Fleeting and dull.
Winter stands poised before it crumbles,
A false show of strength.
Spring wars against itself,
Life chained in death,
A fragment of a rejected paradise.

All the while toil and trouble,
Mark the face of the earthen clock.
They like to dance you see,
Chasing the wind in vainglory and disregard,
Theirs are tornados and wild fires.

But I know of an ancient secret,
One told to many,
And observed by few.
It tells of a greater toil:
One for that which is eternal.

To love his statutes,
And to toil for his people.

O what it is to see your beauty in this fallen land.
You bathe my face in sunlight and vaporise the dirt on my skin.
You have made me a Prince and lay down thick golden carpets on my path.
You place a fire in my heart to bear the coldness.
You have placed in me a wellspring of living waters.

Your world is beautiful,
All creation awaits its resurrection.