I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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To the sailor you give sea, to the blind you give
the boundless dark;
you lead the stranger home to the heart
of his estrangement,
O Lord, our merciful God.
With wine you sweeten the tongues
of those who sleep in dust,
with mountains inspire the weary
to climb exhaustion’s peak,
O mighty King.
Who can measure your craft?
Between the living and dead
you shuttle, weaving
a fabric of light, tirelessly weaving,
O Lord, Mother of light.