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.