There from behind the flowered hill
Rising ever higher,
Bursts forth the sun from darkest night
A Monstrance spun of fire.
While rosy clouds, like angels’ wings
At the Tabernacle’s door,
Gather in the pale blue skies
As a thousand springs before.
In Adoration wake the hills
The sleeping bear, the rose
For every single thing that lives
God’s loving kindness knows.
And greets the day, that like the Mass
His very presence brings,
For Him the grateful flower blooms
To Him the wild bird sings.
Kate Watkins Furman