My own hymn of thanksgiving:
Whatever may come,
i shall remember,
to be grateful.
The smell of new-mown grass,
Its blades crowned with
Will gladden my heart.
(There may be no Shepherd
But we are surely sheep.)
Even in terror of my own death,
i see all encompassed before me
Through eyes that glimpse eternity,
Through hands that both restrain and revive.
And in this way am i nourished,