Exaltavit Humiles
By Daniel Berrigan
All things despised, capricious,
Evanescent, have an hour of morning. Sumac jostled
By shouldering oaks to the forest edge—how it burns
Clearer than they. And cobweb, no more than afterthought,
Trembles at dawn like new-hammered silver.
Someone has overlaid the crouching rocks
With purest lace: they almost stumble to feet
For very pride.
The wild brown grasses stand
Singing a canticle at the furnace door:
Bless the Lord, rhyme at morning, frost and cold air!
Even the roots, bound hand and foot, hear and heave mightily,
Like cruciform, and wait the breaking spell.
For a moment, nothing is wasted, nothing of no moment;
To the banquet grace calls, grace clothes the unwanted poor.
–from Time Without Number
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