The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

Your pain is a school unto itself–– and your joy a lovely temple.

Where humanitysowed faith, hope, and unity, joy’s garden blossomed.

Love, Mercy, and Grace, sisters all, attend your wounds of silence and hope.

Feet sandaled with dreams tread paths of vision leading to wisdom’s sharp peaks.

Un-winged and naked, sorrow surrenders its crown to a throne called grace.

Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.

In an age of bombsguzzling blood, skylarks merge peacewith thought and action.

Death wins nothing here,gnawing wings that amputate––then spread, lift up, fly.