A whisper curls through morning’s fragile veil,
The Word unfurls, a flame no winds assail,
Yet ears alone, entranced, may weave a tale—
A shroud of self, where truth begins to fail.

For hearers stand before a glassy stream,
Their faces caught in ripples soft and still,
A fleeting gaze, a shadow’s idle dream—
They turn, and lose the visage of their will.

Like men who see, yet blindly walk astray,
Forgetting forms the mirror once confessed,
They drift through mists of unremembered day,
Deceived by hearts that cradle sweet unrest.

But doers rise, their souls a tempered blade,
No echoes hoard their zeal in hollow caves,
With hands they rend the veil that hearing made,
And build where stagnant spirits dig their graves.

The earth responds—the mountains bow, the seas,
A symphony of stone and tide awake,
Each deed a note, each step a bold decree,
The Word alive in all they undertake.

Through storm and flame, their vision holds its gleam,
No glass can dim the fire that they bear,
A cathedral soars where once was but a beam—
Its spires pierce the sky with answered prayer.

So let the heavens roar, the stars align,
A crescendo vast, where faith and act entwine,
For those who forge the Word in life’s design,
Eternal light through mortal hands shall shine.