Wherever ethereal sprites abound,
in gossamer testament to the sound;
Of angels' wings in holy flight,
which bring us comfort through the night...

The charcoal dust of midnight's sphere,
confounds the messages that appear;
From all the saints' resurgent fame,
while folks still seek the mighty flame.

Yet far from earth and into white,
they disappear beyond our sight;
With secrets only known to God,
and serve as heaven's lightning rods.

But soon they're sent to ease our pain,
a choir singing the Lord's refrain;
The whitest light overcomes all fear,
and wipes away each mournful tear.