Thirty humans greet the sun
by a church, on a hill.
'Thine be the glory', they sing,
as squadrons of birds shout
their raucous dawn challenges
from commanding positions on high.
Mist shrouds layers of hills
in this North Downs bowl,
sea-green in the mid distance,
breeze-block grey at the edge
of our sight; O what a morning
to be alive, to be greeting the son...
But if the mist lifted
from our souls' perception,
would terror of the blazing god
blind our hearts and crack our minds,
or would a joy too rich to speak
raise us far beyond this English hill?
