Sir Frances Wyatt’s Dream

of a country full and free
tasting of glory and zoe blossoming
where all nature, breath, voice and heart
blazes with praises to an Almighty One
and His covering falls on us thickly, freshly,
a land of holy freedom…


My country,’ tis of thee,
sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing;
land where my fathers died,
land of the pilgrims’ pride,
from every mountainside let freedom ring!

My native country, thee,
land of the noble free, thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
thy woods and templed hills;
my heart with rapture thrills, like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
and ring from all the trees sweet freedom’s song;
let mortal tongues awake;
let all that breathe partake;
let rocks their silence break, the sound prolong.

Our fathers’ God, to thee,
Author of liberty, to thee we sing;
long may our land be bright
with Freedom’s holy light;
protect us by thy might, great God, our King.

…the pilgrims must have been brave indeed, Sir Frances understood.

i want to know
what it’s like to hold
a pilgrim soul

not the wandering kind,
but the wild dreamchaser kind,
the noble lover kind


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