In bruising, he heals,
That life may show through
Our tiny scars of death,
And woods, where light steals
Into the branches, renew
Their leaves, our breath.
Our gift is assurance:
This other men lack,
And this we would not trade,
As full of violence
Is the world, and cracked,
All temples made.
Praise has a charm
To one who little owns,
For he or she holds tight
Unto the givers arm,
And scarcely groans,
Though it be night.
