Gathering the saints our feet in morning dew,
Awash in echoes 'neath grand beams,
Enrapt with faces stained in glassy light,
Now sternly huddled in wide open rooms,

Like incense wafting ceaseless through,
Piercing Heavens to attentive courts,
And ever this will be our praise:
Our hearts poured out and hope hung up on You and always You.

Scrambled eggs,
Cooked until they're clouds,
Bright yellow cumulus on the toast,
To rain down simple flavour proud,
A simple and comforting meal,
To leave my stomache well endowed.

Silence has a lovely tone,
And depths in which few dare to tread,
The hubbub has its murmuring merits,
But silence and the little sounds...

Silence and the little sounds hold such weight,
In noisy days that seem to mound,
Mound and mound like weary walls,
And tower in their furious fever.

I wish to sit in silent times,
Dare I tread in those black waters?
Yes I dare in silent sound,
And tomorrow a little longer will I try.

Try to be less busy with it all,
And leave my work in churning fields,
All when the day is done.