I hold the hands of those who climb, so slowly,
bearing unbearable burdens of lilting life,
together, stumbling to distant sky, so high.
The path before us winds, it turns in strife,
until at last the vista wins, most holy.
God stands before us: divine power,
nature, clearly seen by all with ears
to hear the music swirling everywhere.
We stand unspeaking, left with only tears
to say what must be said, confessed, this hour.
Air, sweet and clean and icy smooth—
intoxicating freshness, a toxic lightness of being
free and open in a world of ordinary beauty.
Light, infusing stone and growing green—
a glowing aura, a good and gracious truth.
– MWP 2011
Michael William Pahl 