Breath is true, a rhythmic ripple
rocking the ceiling above my bed,
a cyclical sea, linking my lungs
to the ebb and the flow, the ceaseless tread
which marks the moon-wrung, sun-spun world
with high-lines and ox-bows, living and dead.
Dry one day, they shimmer again
like lungs and blood for breath and bread.
True I breathe, as rivers for seas,
living on moments of freshness fed –
never a surplus, yet heavenly peace
cradles the ripples, and soothes my head.
That eyes would see the dear design
unfolded in this gospel flag
which freely flies with fervent line
of crimson, stretching from the black
across its field, to fly-end white
to make the hands of men to wave,
for such a banner tells the height
of love Jehovah Nissi gave.
When hoisted up the blackened staff
the king paid out that blood-red line
and heaven’s royal flags flew half;
the Son was slain for wrath divine.
And now his hem of white we own,
which moves in gentle winds unseen
The gospel flag is always flown
for Christ our standard makes us clean.