i am a little church(no great cathedral) – 
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
—i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april 

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving 
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children 
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness 

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains 

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature 
—i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing 

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence 
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)