The Keening

Sunrise calls to our slumbered minds
what more said a thousand poems writ.
An ode to the dawn countless mystics sung
will a new phrase grant light to the morn?

Orb of surpassing shine awakes from antiquity
yet there remains something uncomposed.
Shadows run, night meets death, souls awake
can one more syllable add to these prose?

Fingers of bright stretch across the scape
larks have their fifteen minutes of fame.
Eyes shine a million light years away
as each returns to the labors of the day.

Yet calling from old things made new
relentless drive towards the keening.
Saints set free from iniquities struggle  
His mercies are new every morning.