by Kelly Fest
Yet quietly compelling,
The steeple rises
Its spiritual swelling.
The icon it holds
Of the Mother so dear
Brings to the soul
A single tear.
At once filling
With humble pride
To see this thing
Texas hills try to hide,
Crying tears of myrrh,
Oh wondrous streams.
God shines his light,
He casts the beams.
Hearts billow with feeling
I cannot grasp
Here in God's grace
Away from Satan's clasp.