Angel, angel, spirit true,
Blessed fires run through you,
What fine art could frame thy face,
And capture thy immortal grace?

On what distant shores or sands,
Do you work the magic of thy hands?
When Seraphim frolic on fair wings,
Does thy Creator sing?

What skilled hand, and what mind,
Could craft the beauty of thy shine?
And when thine eyes began to see,
Did you see the world with amity?

Where there's beauty, where there's love,
Can Seraphim be found above?
Where passion burns its fearsome sparks,
Does the Angel move in arcs?

When you were born of His imagination,
Did He rejoice in thy creation?
When your wings were finished whole,
Did He rejoice in thy soul?

Angel, angel, spirit true,
Blessed fires run through you,
What fine art could frame thy face,
And capture thy immortal grace?