The eyes so kept in drooping shadow,
To fashion face from all this inking
Mess. The order from the scribble,
Oh working working at the face!
The untrained eye takes long to see,
All folds and manifolds to dine,
With the created thing creating things.

Oh wisened bells I cannot comprehend,
Perhaps your learning drags your even' calls,
From melodies past to cryptic volleys,
Which strictly remark the short hand's deft fall,

Surely now this the very same remark,
Punctuates a different essence of the time,
The day is short, dusk ever on our heels,
Yet every tone is struck as if to rhyme.

Who am I? O Lord,
A sinner in white,
Within, my tumult is as rubble,
To be swept and cleaned,

You have made me at peace with you.
I will declare:
You O Lord have reconciled me to Yourself,
And I know peace.