‘Neath skies that sing
Hallowed songs of God,
The Divine, rapturous on wings,
Spread out from dawn
To sunset and on through long nights,
I, too, sing of the Divine, God,
Albeit with limited sight.
What songs have I, not already sung
Throughout the ages, voiced by sages
And strummed on instruments strung
With the purest of wire? What fire
Should I speak, not already spoken
In praise of the Maker
Or of salvation for the broken
In spirit, the poor of heart,
Those whose eyes have never dwelt
The housing of the Divine Art?
What art have I, in limited sense
To dwell upon Glory,
To seek the Divine?
What story shall I tell
In the time that is mine
With a heart, unperfected,
A seat of dubiousness?