Along the road through country fields,
Farmers scarce but marking every inch,
The sun rolls dreamy through the cloud,
It breaks over the sheaves of air to grace,
The green with muted highlights meek,
Clinging dearly to the ground - the fog
Hangs durable to waning day yet parts,
To frame the world in vibrant bleeding edges.

Like flowing currents in a warm stream,
This molten tiredness drifts beneath my skin,
And my mind wanders like a dream,
It pulls me into muddled half-way hot,
The ripples tall as I dip through the froth like cream,
It pools in steady pools like sunken thoughts,
I stand to the side and breathe the steam.

Oh what’s that,
It seems I’ve got maths in my mind,
It speaks of a great design,
The language of all creation,
He speaks the particles into motion,
His mind behind the oceans,
And every star and every orbit,
To the cool rush from a lovely sorbet.

Oh what’s that,
It seems I’ve got maths in my mind,
As I sit and try to rhyme,
He sits in the depths outside of time,
Thinking every fold of reality before even a sign,
Calculating the very sublime,
And placing his word in the flesh of mankind.

It was the greatest outpouring,
Far more than when He poured numbers into the chaos,
Far more than when He drenched the land in purpose,
Far more than when He carved his image into the dust,
All of it into meek flesh,
To shatter the chains of death.