A gift from Peru,
I place in your hands an ivory crown:
the stones are agate, molten gems
that speak of the iron and clay empire
and its royal virtue,
plunging your spirit into intimacy,
bearing your soul and your flag
as a tree bears ripe fruit,
from its place of honor,
rooted deep within the ground.
From the top of the Myrrh River,
where you stand
on the sacred mountain
your liturgy prays silently:
“Rain, I will go to the lost.
Gate of the circlet of agate,
open to me.”
What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
When I am set apart for a purpose and future, I dare to stand alone.