Peter Hanlon

The hidden hand, the sacred art,
Breathes life again through every part.

From soil enriched by all we’ve done,
New rings of time are slowly spun,
From smallest seed to towering frame,
Each life returns, yet not the same.

We reap the harvest that we sow,
A truth the ages always show,
No deed unseen, no path unknown,
All things are weighed, all seeds are grown.

Not here to preach, for I have known
The weight of faults I’ve called my own,
For like that tree through wind and strife,
I’ve wrestled hard to shape a life.

My leaves were marked, my branches torn,
Yet still I reached each breaking morn,
Through shadowed hours and failing sight,
I leaned, however faint, to light.

And like that tree, though bent, though worn,
I trust that I may be reborn—
To stand once more, made clean, made new,
And grow toward what is good and true.