and sometimes right—

yet all along, out of sight,

we were protected, gently kept

by our great Host, while others slept.

That beautiful and breathing whole,

our Holy Ghost, the cosmic soul.

He asks of us—no grand command—

to build what’s good, by heart and hand.

The green we see, the yielding wood,

are quiet signs of what we could.

A future kind, a time to come,

bright as laughter, warm with sun.

A charming lad, so full of cheer,

the kind of joy that draws us near.

And she—sent down, an angel’s gaze,

to witness what your hands will raise: