Your second century of mission here. Stay on, we pray.
Still stay, still wait the trump of God and hand, that day,
to your arising saint your newly green bouquet
because she’ll need, from joy, some blooms to wave.
I fear I’ll never know your name to praise
your granite ==silence.== Some sadness in the way
you sit, where vagrants hide and squirrels play?
You miss His face, I know. May He grant you for pay,
When we’re all judged, His smile. Which wakes
both sleepers and the stones who watch their graves.