The Giver’s Gift

How great He must esteem her,

How deep runs His trust,

To bestow at the first

What outlives the dust.

She need prove nothing,

Nor toil for her prize,

Yet, for she, weight of heaven

Is shrunk down to size.

Seeds which will,

In season and stride,

Grow to a babe,

All hidden inside.

Mystery of mysteries

That blood must spill

Till Nature has her way,

Form for Spirit to fill.

Yet to play this part,

In story larger than life

She must crawl then walk

From girl to wife.


To Daphne, my precious gift.

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