Lifting

May it not be said that one day means more than the next,
For each set will rise the same as that which foretold.
From mornings first dawn when divinely light was said,
Until the last glimmer shatters that final speck of gold.

Can by anxious thought one more hour be obtained, 
Stacked upon the shoulders of all chiefly fallen? 
The light returns empty to the master of the day,
When all that which bestowed was thanklessly taken.

Make fast and sure to hear the southern wind howl, 
It whirls and turns where it pleases with no consultation. 
Lifting and changing until all that is left is here and now,
Conceived supremely by those born of water and heaven.

The splendor of Israel’s third king cannot compare,
To the grass which grows on the silent covered hill.
Linger awhile longer sublimely in contemplative prayer,
Until these words finally sink in and leave the heart still.

Lost souls chase that which always bind allegiance to hell,
The righteous delight when holy pleasures double.  
So let tomorrow remain anxious enough for itself,
For it is sufficient for the day to possess its own trouble.