Men's memories, wed with their quest for meaning
creates Conscience, sole salvage of the Fall.
Most live their lives, carrousing and carreening
chaotic, unconscious of Spirit's call
to stratify, and discipline the drive
which moves all lives from reptile to divine.
Slow brutes, who barely know they are alive,
we'd rather slop the grog, than sip the wine.
Plain conscience is the curtain's other side:
and theater of honor, mercy, love.
Here our Spirit, pure, angelic, does abide.
True royalty, and beautiful above
all men-made things, this bride of commonplace
waits humbly, while blushing eternal grace.