Let thought be a cathedral where His name
echoes through vaulted silence, stone by stone.
Let every word we utter wear His light
like incense rising, slow and luminous.

Let action carve His glory into time—
each gesture a chisel, each step a prayer.
Let gifts fall open-palmed, unmeasured, bright
as rain on parched and unexpected ground.

Let blessings bloom unbidden in the dark,
small fires along the ridge of daily life.
Let labor wear His name across the shoulders,
sweat turning sacred under heaven’s gaze.

Within the fragile ark of family,
where laughter fractures into quiet tears,
let Him be glorified in broken bread
and hands that reach across the table’s wood.

Let every goal burn upward like a flare,
and hope—thin-winged, trembling—still ascend
through gales that split the sky and shake the heart.

In golden hours and in the iron ones,
in triumph’s trumpet and in sorrow’s ash,
in all the shifting weather of our days—

may Jesus Christ, our King, be forever glorified!