Every day the stars disappear,
The sun wanes in the dying west,
Each day the moon sinks with the year
And fades upon its silver chest---
I think of you, the God who holds
The falling day, the burning night
The God who in his grace still folds
The gentle dove within its flight
Against his heart, against his soul
And shields it from the lancing rain
The blistering heat, the crumbling cold...
Lord, by this, by your crimson stain.
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