The bell, that once rang out so loud and clear, is cracked and silent; still we gather 'round, for thund'rous is the hush we've come to hear and wakens echoes that do still resound, if only in our hearts, of liberty.
The tea bag blomps about my steaming cup,
It puffs with air, balloonly bouncy light,
Flits brief below, then quickly floats back up;
I leave it in until my tea's just right.
Sometimes I add a bit of something sweet,
Sometimes I add a bit of something sour.
Sometimes I drink it simple, plain and neat,
And sip another cup with each new hour.
I wish I'd something quite profound to say,
Some bit of wit more deep than steeping tea.
But maybe thoughts of tea will show the way,
For it's in seeing that we learn to see,
And thoughts are puffy things, and airy light,
Dip down below before they come up right.
She came to stave off just a few short days Fulfillment of decay that had begun Some several thousand years ago, and lays Deep buried at the core of everyone. She came with bitter spices rare and sweet, To offer one last service to her Lord, To give His death the honor due and meet. She came, her heart sore pierced as with a sword. A flaming sword, when angels cleared the way, And death itself lay slain before her feet, On this the dawning third and sacred day, Bewildered until He Himself would greet Her by her name of bitterness and pain, Now raised to joy with Christ her Lord once slain.