Real angels do not dance on heads of pins,
nor pluck their harps from clouds, in swan-winged flight.
Alone, a man must reach beyond his sins
to shepherd restoration of Soul's light.
No guardian attends our loss or gain,
waiting Gabriel-like, to guide our way.
Each inch of Heaven's road is wrung from pain,
reclaiming Honor's granite from the clay.
Where children are unwanted and forlorn,
and ancient folk know only endless need,
authentic angels minister to worn
and wingless sons of Eden's sacred seed.
Rarest comet, shedding grace with halo bright
Shine Theresa, Mother Angel, heart of light!