Tumble bumbled rumble,
A cyclic siphon sifting,
Speaks in spattered spills,
Mouths around a clustered cloth,
The time is leisurely to clock,
Departing at the same,
Returning plenty late,
But warmly dry.

Hidden in the perfect man,
What glory far too good for me,
To know my God as father now,
To know my God would purchase me,
What glory far too good for me!
That He would nurse my sickness through,
That He would hold me close when I am cold,
What glory far too good for me,
Forgiven when I pain my soul,
Comforted when myself dismay.

Winding paths,
Converge into one,
Like fleeting bursts they multiply like streams,
Then they consolidate in a bustling walk,
It pools at a reservoir,
And people swim amalgamated with the rushing tide:
Waltzers,
Rapid rushers,
Wandering walkers waking in a clockwork stew,
And the dam bursts,
And I'm flowing in the rapids now,
And the creaking train beneath my feet is herald of a timely trip made once again.