O Lord, restore us to that garden—
we’ve forgotten the scent of roses.
That stain-glass mirror in our pockets
does nothing but expose us.

Rinse and repeat—the news cyclops,
its blind eye turned, tapering tears.
Catch and release—the news cyclone,
maelstrom of manufactured fears.

Word, please graze this world
and return to flower and skin,
so that our eyes might behold
the expression of the beauty within.

Creature, do you doubt the design?
Does the chaos make you hopeless?
Or have you made too many designs
of your own to clearly focus?