Tools Were Made And Born Were Hands,

And I Made A Rural Pen, And I Stained The Water Clear, And I Wrote My Happy Songs Every Child May Joy To Hear.

Where Others See But The Dawn Coming Over The Hill, I See The Soul Of God Shouting For Joy.

Forgive What You Do Not Approve & Love Me For This Energetic Exertion Of My Talent

To Be An Error And To Be Cast Out Is A Part Of God's Design.

The Pure Soul Shall Mount On Native Wings, . . . And Cut A Path Into The Heaven Of Glory.