BACK | HOME  
 
The Welle of Grace
 
Sure, new buds grow quickly
watered in sunlight, charity, and grace.
Fragrant and high, Spring visions
tranfix the sense, the eye, and soul.
 
Blessed scent coats the painter's field
before the first brush carves a spec.
Brighter, grown with the floating Sun
more highlights to the canvas fall.
 
Among the hidden wings there stirs
a music over the gentle ground.
A light, still showing, from the heart
hears that rhythm sculpted Rule.
 
As the light ascends up overhead
the music it will fade for awhile.
In the end, when that light must dim
will the least be taken off this hill.
 
And by death, for those last hours
watered so they won't run dry,
may their tissued colors teach
the glory that comes from The welle.

 
 
  [Mark Johnson, copyright 1997]