Such habits of routine we tout;

We stir and stretch and wander out,

Then make the coffee, find our nook

And settle down to read the Book.

We pray God’s blood all sores assuage,

Then sketch our thoughts on secret page

While sipping slow and soft our drink

That nourishes like ancient ink.

And finally, when the sun has broke

The night’s last grasp on dawning folk

And vibrant crimson streaks the air,

We rise, content that God is there.