When the wings stop beating

(provision, provision, provision)

when i think God is harsh, that Strictness is His Mighty Name,

remind me of this:

he makes springs to pour forth into the dry ravines,

they flow between the mountains, to bring drink to all the dusty and hungry beasts of the earth,

the bucking donkeys, normally so wild, come to sip of his waters,

the birds of the air, so busy to find provision, notice his care, and come to rest by his waters,

they sing, hidden in their branches, so full of gratitude, that their God should notice, and let them rest from their work, to see a provision that didn’t require the beating of their tiny wings,

He beholds the cows and their calflings, hungry on the plains,

and he aims his finger for the grass to sprout,

He sees man, with their ribs sticking out, in need of work to do, he causes millions of types of plants to grow, that man also might feed, and that man might might have an agrisport to play, to make sure the work of sustenance is carried on down here.

And when man sweats from the toils that sin has wrought on his planet, when the work is heart, and his heart grows weary,

the kind one, full of creativity, from His loft that is the universe, God reaches down and provides two magic blessings:

Oil for man’s face, to restore the balm of his image and his peace.

And wine for his heart, to bring joy and the brief forgetfulness of pain on the planet.