I commune with nature and find her gentle hand
reaching to the sky with ample fingers, wooded fingers.
Mysteries of Godís creation sealed within the casings.
The stark winter haze provides yet another contrast
to the sight of Christ in Godís house reining beyond the heaven.
Who cries for Jesus in these cold harsh days?
Who reaches on the highest to praise his name?
Who courts the tiniest ballerina?
Who stands erect joyously dancing?
Dancing to the rhythm of the Gods heavenly choir.
Plaid pipe men cannot come near to music played in Godís honor.
The bands of the earth bound are but strange noise.
Hear the trumpet, the tree, the tambourine all in concert.
Their extended fingers playing the windís harp
calling the Masterís violin to join the recital
Find an angel and ask for a name, beg angelic attention
Man is but fodder in their sight, a parasite, so temporary.
No one knows how to address their highness
but, Angels know, as does Jesus, God in His realm
Oh, fall on your knees ye pallid faces.
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