This fact I hold up before me -
we are all flowers of the field.
What once was strong, enduring
must one day pass away. 

Time brings little deaths,
minor infirmities,
adding up, year on year.
Have I not felt it? 

Creations of a moment:
growing, blooming, fruiting, falling.
But I find this surprise in myself -
Why does it not cause despair? 

It should! My sum total
adds only to that treasured by others:
Where the railing, bitter
against perceived injustice? 

The eloquence of your blood, Lord Jesus,
Cries out far better than does Abel's bloods,
For in thy pure light the Father sees us,
His promises blossom, His mercy buds. 

For your love alone is love submissive,
So for you alone may I live my life,
For you alone Lord give me life to live,
And you alone art perfect sacrifice.

The Father listens to your holy plea.
He ever trusts in Thy blameless ethos,
For you make your speech, Lord, so blamelessly,
With Mary, O Virgin Theotokos!

You alone with God may be called our Mother,
(Eve was unable as Cain killed his brother).

I had a vision of the moon, beautiful and sublime:
Beautiful in that it is so near,
Sublime in that it is so far.
It could have fit neatly on my tongue.
But I was afraid:
It would have burnt through my head.
It glides swiftly North through fixed and immutable clouds,
Yet ever stays before my eyes.
Each immutable cloud passes out of sight as we sail along.
I felt the wind that it struggled against in my soul.
My ears heard deafening silence as it persevered and strove,
Sometimes being illuminated by the clouds,
Sometimes hidden, but always coming through in the end.
Finally it comes to rest when it had conquered all.
Finally I wake up and close shut my eyes.