Out of Egypt:

Autumn Gloria

Christ, Lord, Recreator, grant
that I may always joy as in this day,
this sweet Fall in which I wake to feel my face
made holy by Your home within.

I lie down, I go to sleep;
You alone make me dwell in safety.

And as in childhood when I ran,
delight before I knew of death,
let me in knowledge be born again.

The fellowship of saints is sweet,
mere presence grace beyond my words.

Evan, I miss your poems. I miss poems in general. I haven't been reading many since Poetry class finished. And then the dog ate the Billy Collins book I got out of the library . . . but that's okay. It's all reconciled now.

Posted by: linnea at November 10, 2005 11:56 PM