As I grow in age,
I start to realize,
Every day is like a page,
To be read by only one’s eyes.

Every chapter holds a meaning,
Whether implicit or explicit,
Gleaming or demeaning,
Only one can judge it.

The binding holds it all together,
And each staple is a friend,
Making it impossible to weather,
And impossible to bend.

Every book is constantly refined,
Too expensive to afford,
And perfectly aligned,
In the library of the Lord.