When the bloom is off the rose
And the question . . . Is that all there is? draws to a close
Like some fossil of despair . . . like all the false starts before
Grace picks up the pieces
Scattered across the floor.
Grace
The angel that transcends
Holds a mirror to the trends
And leads expectation
Again and again and again.
Grace is faith in royal robes
Resilient
Transcendent as the fragrance of the rose.
Grace the whisper of the wind
A sweet essential . . . the mind that speaks within
The heart of the greater part
As the Phoenix from its ashes
Speaks of new beginnings at the end.
