When burning spices mingle with the prayer
of heavenly voices, holy scents arise,
and toward the East are turned my open eyes
to look on Christ's ascension painted there.

The censer’s smoke swirls up as embers flare
an offering of Earth’s treasures toward the skies,
while, sweetly sung, a hymn that glorifies
the Holy Spirit fills the fragrant air.

This adoration rises to the ceiling,
and lingers there in humankind’s defense.
My lips, and now this church, are cleansed by coal
that burns in tongs and censer’s bowl revealing
that sweet as odor spilled by lit incense
is grace poured out upon my errant soul.