| Holy as a day is spent
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| Holy is the dish and drain
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| The soap and sink, and the cup and plate
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| And the warm wool socks, and the cold white tile
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| Shower heads and good dry towels
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| And frying eggs sound like psalms
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| With bits of salt measured in my palm
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| It’s all a part of a sacrament
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| As holy as a day is spent
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| Holy is the busy street
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| And cars that boom with passion’s beat
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| And the check out girl, counting change
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| And the hands that shook my hands today
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| And hymns of geese fly overhead
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| And spread their wings like their parents did
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| Blessed be the dog that runs in her sleep
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| To chase some wild and elusive thing
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| Holy is the familiar room
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| And quiet moments in the afternoon
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| And folding sheets like folding hands
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| To pray as only laundry can
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| I’m letting go of all my fear
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| Like autumn leaves made of earth and air
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| For the summer came and the summer went
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| As holy as a day is spent
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| Holy is the place I stand
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| To give whatever small good I can
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| And the empty page, and the open book
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| Redemption everywhere I look
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| Unknowingly we slow our pace
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| In the shade of unexpected grace
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| And with grateful smiles and sad lament
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| As holy as a day is spent
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| And morning light sings 'providence'
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| As holy as a day is spent |