Poetry

In the morning we are awakening
to the rising sun as a shining thing,
during the year seasons come and they go;
while the real depths of love we do not know.

From a baby’s first inquiring small cry,
until the very day that we do die
endlessly rivers to the sea do flow;
while the real depths of love we do not know.

From the very act of our own creation
to sin our parents had an invitation
and by his own death God did his love show,
while the real depths of love we do not know.

We teach each child, our own daughter and son,
the principles of love until we are gone,
while the wind eternally dies and blow;
while the real depths of love we do not know.