A Song For The Continuance

Praise of God, the Creator

It is good to make music to your name, O Most High, 

to proclaim your love in the morning.

It is good to praise the Lord,

  and to sing psalms to your name, O Most High,

to proclaim your mercy in the morning

  and your faithfulness by night;

on the ten-stringed lyre and the harp,

  with songs upon the lyre.

For you give me joy, Lord, in your creation:

  I rejoice in the work of your hands.

How great are your works, O Lord,

  how immeasurably deep your thoughts.

                                     Psalm 91 (Universalis)

                                             A Song For The Continuance

                                             Your abundance is glimmering
                                             Over the descending
                                                 Minion

                                             Gold and every tone 
                                             Dropping
                                             Into the purses
                                                 Of sleep

                                             Slippered seeds
                                             Rattling their soft song
                                             Over the dark and deep 
                                                 Wells of silence
                                                 
                                             Softly falling 
                                                 Imperceptibly                                                                                     
                                             Into the deepest chords of night
                                                 Where the sun
                                             
                                             Still shining
                                                 Beneath us

                                             Beneath the heavy weave
                                                 Of oblivion

                                             Eventually gushes forth
                                                 All the myriad
                                      
                                             Like a solitary air
                                             On a string of hope
                                                  Of prayer
                                                                                                             
                                             To the gift of you Lord
                                             Bearing all things
                                             Lifting us up
                                                  Again.