It's looks so ordinary here,
Contending for the sky to fall,
To open gush and pour on out,
The knowledge of Your name to wretched men,
But here in this still room far from
The bustling street you choose to dwell,
With weak and salvaged vessels - yes,
It is no ordinary thing at all!

The melody maker,
Plucking the resonaces from the air,
Laying them out in lines and rows,
Making beautiful praises to the lamb,
Drawing out creation into echoed glory,
Bring forth metal pans and plastered walls,
They too shall hum at melody's call,
In praises to the living God,
Sing praises to the living God.

Dropping down like a sack of rice,
Falling scattered in my pot-like bed,
Sizzling under covers until I'm fluffy tomorrow,
I will face the day and fall like grains again,
Until next time...
I'll be cooking with sleep and sheep for now.