Halt, take in the flower-fyrd whose faces gaze above.
For God doth formed these instruments,
His glory from below, a friendly fere of His free-love.
Colours abound and smells ablaze, coddled carefully by sovereign grace,
Created in over-many shades, creation requests contemplation,
God receive praise from our glory-bound place.
Flee to the forest and walk in wonder
Dew-flavored florae that arise from thunder.
God of Glory, we alms-guests seek,
Only to find in mast-lands so meek.
Blest by back-woods, expansive, brave, and blazoned above
Humble inscription inciting and inflaming the in-carnation of love.