Rages pass me, quiet grabs me,
like a child's gentle hand,
colors fill me, creases smooth now,
like an artist's careful plan.
Sand to soil and rock ot seed now
clawing from its earthly cage,
burst the tomb and pierce the air
for grace is finally born of rage.
The air is still, and I will not falter.
The air is sweet, and I will not hide.
The air is full, and I will not wilt.
The air is warm, and I will not wither now.
THe peace deferred now overtakes
and turns it all from grey to rose,
bank the fire and sound the horn
finally all of my color shows.
I am growing from the vines,
I have risen from the thorns,
I'm taking stock of what I've gained
for finally I am reborn.
I will not slumber now,
I will not waste away,
I will not hide myself
in shadows of a brighter day.
I will not waiver now,
I will not flit away,
I will not bloom and die
the dawn before the bright of day.
