My glory, my dear friend,
My faithful love: deliverer,
You truly make days good,
With all the vilest wounds,

How could I ever sing of this,
Unspeakable yet true,
My sacred God would be so scorned,
To dust that he once blew.

But this is hope and breath and life,
The beauty in the view,
That he would be so satisfied,
To take us home to you.

Forgotten callouses found again,
Bare beginnings discipline what was,
A dusty heap to flourish anew,
Further than before in reckless hope:
Cast greenery beyond the bounds of relic roots.

A little light,
Flies still in my corner view,
Just barely peeking out from the cracked darkness,
It flies Southeast from a creeping split in the door frame,
And the light floods out from another's room,
Out into the heart of the quiet attic,
Where it flies still in my corner view.