Alone above the vale atop the rim
Another day aspent returns to him
Who paints in hues arousing artists' pens
Defying, now eluding every lens

Alas this childish heart can only know
The sacred joy behind this transient glow
My Father's best for last and given me
As hint that glory triumphs finally

But now it comes to me how small my place
And slow my heart conspire to veil his face
The hand who paints the skies does never rest
That I but wings to fly into the west