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Sol’ asked for wisdom,
a wise move that turned out
well for him.

True wisdom comes from
beyond our first thoughts.

Some use prayer, some meditation,
some plant seeds, watch them
fight to fruition.

The song is sung, the praise made,
the bed is prepared, and we
reap the sown—

planting full of unknowns, our
efforts and work sometimes
with reward.

At others, we get the lesson of
the storm, the locusts come,
the drought,

the blight of uncertainty leading
to the glory of overcome obstacles
in eternity;

songs sung, the battle won, we step
up to ask, then receive the gift
of another day,

a chance to rise above the fray,
take a back seat to all that’s grey,
songs sung,

glorifying the altar that is on the hill,
waterfalls heard by standing still.

Wise like the serpent, soft like the
dove, we ask for Sol’s blessing,
the ancestors—

imperfect and sweet, like us,
somewhere between rainbow and
geese, songs sung

so we can look back, say
“We won.”

We did it, Longfellow’s hero in
the strife, heroes by trying hard,
and living life.

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