Our gathered hope would rise to the same note x3 for effect: and the things of earth. But we’d sung it too many times, we knew those notes black with wax-winged pride. So we’d surrender all, turn our eyes, then obediently fall to that other note x3, the one humbler, bordered by fear’s glory and grace: will grow strangely dim. When I was a child I sang as a child. But that was moons ago, days of scaled theology. I am older now, my vision blinded by the full and wonderful – the back of a woman’s knee, the brief summer laughter of children, the smell of cinnamon, reading Stafford through bifocals, and the grave’s temporary victory. Things of earth.