.
In little time I stake my claim
To all the panoply of fame.
My words are air, their manuscript
Forgetful flesh, a bony crypt
To lay these stillborn creatures in.
The foolishness of light intent
I turn to praise, my patterns meant,
Poor gist, for Him by whose free gift
My life is bought; the seasons sift
Away my youth, my fear, my sin.
The fire upon my hearth is tame
God's gentile creature; now my name
Is signed in polished oak and brass,
My soul is singing, clear as glass,
Pure as this babe I bear within.
My songs as light as ash are spent;
My hope's elsewhere, a long descent
In flesh and land –– and yet the air
Stirs with fresh music, calls me where
Intricate webs of words begin.
Lord, let me not be silent till
All earth is grinding in Your mill!
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