fly, bird, o'er the windswept trees.
dance in the light of morning's first call.
rise up into the mist, beyond the failing dew,
and fly with abandon; no more care.
fly, bird, in the upper rush of air.
feel the brush of angel's wings
intermingle with holy breath,
as the Lord watches over you.
27 September 2008 by Glen Alan Woods
No comments:
Post a Comment