Grateful Angels Sing At Heaven's gates Grateful angels sing at Heaven's gates In choirs, well, perhaps five trillion strong, Unleashing love insatiable in song, Love unknown to those of other fates. In us, so far removed from such high states, Alien even to where we belong, Neither here nor there for very long, A love like that retreats, and doubts, and waits. To Be An Angel To be an angel, one need not have wings. In giving love there is an equal grace. Nor need one seek the aura in the face, As love unveils the beauty of all things. Angels Are quite Ample Cause To Cry Angels are quite ample cause to cry, Now, like silent movies, obsolete. God Itself now knoweth Its demise, Even as a plaything of the wise, Lost to all but those that work the street, A retiree not ready yet to die. Voice Of Its Own Each angel has a voice its own, Vocally distinct, Even as it longs for home, Lured to Being's brink. Yet billions, billions sing as one, Nearer than they think. Perhaps An Angel Perhaps an angel told you once of love, A spirit pure, not knowing fear or shame. Until that whispered word, perhaps, you came Less willing to the winds that some hearts move, After which you had for them a name. Thank You Thank you for being our guardian angel Having come to our rescue in our time of need Angels love people as parents love children Nor could we a better have found of the breed Knowing how hard such a one is to wangle Yet you, with your wings and your halo half-hidden On us have descended with glory unbidden Undoing the darkness our fate had decreed No Angels Of Despair Here there are no angels of despair. Arrayed in choirs, they sing only of joy. Performing for the sheer delight of being, Poised between the act of sight and seeing, Yet infinite, yet of this earth, they toy Scholastically with being here nor there, Eden's hosts, though none the worse for wear. Come down from that sweet hilltop, anguish fleeing, On those they light who for another care, Now filling with their ecstasy the air, Dear hints of bliss no evil can destroy. Praise Remains The Specialty Of Angels Praise remains the specialty of angels, A simple motivation for their song. Unfortunately, we require angles, Living in a world of right and wrong. A paradise refines the call to praise. Just being there evokes a love of being, A perfect passion for unending days, So beautiful it swallows up all seeing. Our passions are, perhaps, well, more mature. Nor are we capable of praise so pure. Where Might You Fly Given angel's wings, where might you fly? In what sweet heaven might you find your love? Unwilling to be bound, where might you move, Lost between the wonder and the why? If you were but a flame of pure desire, A light so lovely you could not be seen, Near mad with yearning, yet somehow serene, And that were all, what more might you require?