C
clgleonard
Guest
The Lord remains revealed in rush of day:
His mother's tongue this earth, her birthing clay,
His depths divined in child's leaping play,
Word heard in wind-whispered woods of May;
The river banks, the Lord's love-lavished feet,
His face in every face mine lifts to greet,
His eyes the sky's high-blown cotton sheets,
His hand outheld in Byward's beggar streets.
And ah! this day is much too much to stay
In any place for long and not kneel and pray,
Say thanks for this holy heaven-sprung May day
That—O my God!—so gives itself away.
Thank you, Lord, for this lush and living treat,
For light, for love, the very air I breathe.
His mother's tongue this earth, her birthing clay,
His depths divined in child's leaping play,
Word heard in wind-whispered woods of May;
The river banks, the Lord's love-lavished feet,
His face in every face mine lifts to greet,
His eyes the sky's high-blown cotton sheets,
His hand outheld in Byward's beggar streets.
And ah! this day is much too much to stay
In any place for long and not kneel and pray,
Say thanks for this holy heaven-sprung May day
That—O my God!—so gives itself away.
Thank you, Lord, for this lush and living treat,
For light, for love, the very air I breathe.
