See also: Patron of the Arts

Codex text

Where whither grows the simple scent of sprigs anew in furrowed soil,
For on the vine are yours and mine, a bounty blessed by honest toil.
Though brave in war and ways we are, and wander thus in victory,
It's on the vine where yours and mine are graced with health and history.

In home and hearth and battlefield, our sustenance is common held,
If on the vine are yours and mine, and always there we are compelled,
For turning home is not retreat when home is why we fight at all,
And on the vine is yours and mine, entreating in our heart the call.

So of the boons you cannot buy, there are but two we're certain of,
Not on the vine of yours or mine, is first the cost of truest love,
And that denied a purchase price, we turn our gaze to what's in hand
And of the vine are yours and mine, tomatotl [sic] from our own land.

──From A Garden's Grace: Songs of the Field, collected by Maryden Halewell


O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where You would bid me
Stand only in places You have blessed
Sing only the words You place in my throat.

My Maker, know my heart
Take from me a life of sorrow
Lift from me a world of pain
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

My Creator, judge me whole:
Find me well within Your grace
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed
Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

O Maker, hear my cry:
Seat me by Your side in death
Make me one within Your glory
And let the world once more see Your favor

For You are the fire at the heart of the world
And comfort is only Yours to give.

—Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1–6

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