Like a memory, of a Church gate...

This morn
a church gate me reminds
And She in her flowing white-
A gown she worn
Running all the mud and slush
As if she had to meet Her August, a Rush,

And the little standing quiet
Under a tree mahogony
Like a white speck of her delight,

This morn rings a song
She running to find her son
Standing for her with a smiling light...

And she running through the street
To get there where she would meet
Her young her offspring
O how then the chorus did sing
A song like never being
Late to run to the church gate...

Twenty hours of minutes not too late
She me finds running to church gate...
Her white gown flowing wet
By mud slush getting smudged
Still me finds her
Running from farthest far
To the gate of a church
Where a blossom bloomed like August, a rush...