How does it always prove a joy
To praise as many but as one?
Spoilt I am to swift employ
Affection on his holy sons,
My brothers are as rising winds:
So full and sending myriads,
It is with gladness that I sing,
And fill a sail with myriads.

I'm conking out in style,
Where roads inevitably end,
And plastered with a sleepy smile,
For most my energy is gladly spent,

The happy work is done,
With lifted and anointed praise,
New stories of His grace begun!
And out of sight the happy work of saints as well.

An image of His passion,
In the sublimating day,
That buzzes now with every pulse
Of sunlight scattered on the grass,
That rises in its purest dance,
That grows along the ordained rails,
That follows rising flowers in the wind,
That kiss sun and wither in the wake.

Put my heart on like a glove,
Lead my feet where you will,
Along quiet streams with my beloved,
Facing arid desert and storm,
Though graveyard to vineyard,
I'd ask you why you love me so,
But the answer's always sung the same:
How could I not, my handiwork,
My child and chosen race?
For I am love and you are mine,
And so you shall remain.