Beneath the vaulted sky, a whisper hums,
A silver thread of dawn through shadows spun,
The Word ignites—alive, a embered drum,
And bids the soul to rise, to chase the sun.

Not ears alone shall cradle sacred sound,
Nor hearts grow fat on echoes richly sown,
For truth, a seed, lies dormant in the ground—
Unplowed, unworked, its bloom remains unknown.

Behold the hands, those heralds of the will,
That carve the stone and bend the iron’s frame,
They dance with dust upon the windswept hill,
And etch in flesh what tongues alone proclaim.

The river roars, a mirror to the call,
Its currents cleave the earth in ceaseless might,
So too the doer heeds, forsakes the stall,
And wields the day against the shroud of night.

Through tempest’s howl, through flame’s unyielding stare,
The Word takes root in sinew, sweat, and stride,
A cathedral grows where once stood empty air—
Its spires ascend where faith and act collide.

No longer bound to benches carved of pine,
Nor lulled by hymns that drift on idle breath,
The soul unfurls, a banner made divine,
A living creed that triumphs over death.

So let the chorus swell, the heavens rend,
A crescendo vast, of purpose fiercely free,
For those who do, the stars themselves descend,
To crown their works with light eternally.