FROM THE STEAMING POT OF PRAISE

In your hands of grace, me you bore,

rose me from the dust of shame and sore.

Drowning in the sea of sorrow, you took me ashore.

Buried in the soil of disgrace; my grave you tore.

Now tell me why I won't thank You when Your peace is core.

Speak not o mountains and valleys,

shut your lips o whistling rivers of Man,

replace my voice not o giant trees and cloud,

for my voice's pride I will bend to lift him high till I die,

my heart will see to His praises from morning to dusk.

I will turn back the hands of time,

carrying it on my shoulder, for that is prime.

I will journey to the time when man was none,

before your marvelous voice formed the sun,

I will fly to the time before sin grew a horn.

I will praise you from before the heavens were born,

I will call you till the world as incense, I burn.

For you are a King I will always adore,

So full of peace and the greatest ardor.

Mide Benedict

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