Of birds unsung, of unripened trees,
Of little drops, crystal tears striving to form,
Of something small, wriggling bees,
All is known a thing , something it becomes after the form

And we soar to sour, when life takes turn,
And a minute last, an ever best,
And as rough gold through furnace, O, what fine return
Another in down so cast, another in zest.

May this time triumph through death's shadowed valley, the cup running over
May many a story tell, of good and free
May these flowers bloom, not to take cover,
May my miracles walk down the aisle, when all eyes can see