Lord, Lord, — these miracles, the streets, all say, —
bring to us soon thy best most golden day,
that every stick and stone for thee may shine,
thy praise be sung in every shaft and line.
Lord, Lord, — the steeples and the towers cry, —
deepen beyond belief this ancient sky,
darker than time, or terror, be that blue,
and we’ll still praise thee by still pointing true.
Lord, Lord, — the fountains weep, — hear our delight,
these waters for birds and children we keep bright,
where children shout, and the stone dolphin sings,
thy rainbow blessed by holy eyes and wings.
Lord, Lord, all voices say, and all together,
stone, steel, and waking man and waking weather,
give us thy day, that once more we may be
the endless miracle that embodies thee.