Without, the land still flows with blood,
A likeness of my day:
Earth's creatures moan, in fire and flood
And God must look away.

But here, my vagrant spirit might
Draw in the crystal air
And mark, in music's purest light
The toad, the sheep, the hare.

This is not my century!
Sin's stain has spread apace
...Yet, fixed on our trajectory
Are beams of perfect grace.
— Ellen Taylor.