Grandeur spills from every crevice of His holy face,
Pouring from the effulgent heaven about toward my on this poisonous ground,
He infiltrates the endless depths of my being filling my empty space,
For he is the lustrous guide in which i found.
King of Kings is He who fabricated my flesh and blood using His humble hands,
He is my beginning, my end, the justification for my subsistence.
So gracious is He to bestow me breathe in order to follow his commands,
And to give second chances to me for my faults without resistance.
The perfect image is He while i a ruined page in His book,
I am feeble and frail as He is almighty in all.
Nor am i worthy for his abundance, yet still upon me he doth look,
Even more, it his His cleansed hands that lift me up when i happen to fall.
I am in no comparison to my beloved creator whom i adore,
Yet He will be my guide forever more.
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