Angels

Their storms are like our summer days
Their midnights bright as noon
And if 't'were mercy water then
Their deserts our monsoon.

Their shadows are our sunshine
Their sorrows are our joys
The clashing of their cymbalines
Our sweetest melodies.

Our finest country roses
To them are common weeds
Their most calamitous mistakes
Our most courageous deeds.

Gold to them is simply rust
Those shining seraphim
Silk and satin, sandpaper
Compared their tiny wings.

They have no names, they need no names
The only words they sing
Are 'Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy is our King!'

They have no north, no east, no west
No dusk, no day, no dawn
Just waterfalls of endless tears
That fall the endless morn.

Their blues taste of vanilla
Their greens of sanctity
Their reds are reds of righteousness
Their purples, pure glory.

Love to them is love
As milk to us is milk
(Bright hearts of cherub-gold
Soft wings of seraph-silk).

Yes love to them is Love
As real is to our dream
For they love love like lightning
We like a cool moon-beam.