Long has our king been absent from these lands,sailing east to see where the sun might rise,his steed a delicate silver longshipwhose prow is carved like a dove-on-the-wing:leaving us as the stewards of his house,a mighty mansion, a castle of many rooms,where daily upon the gates ring the knocksof the sick, the orphaned, and the widowed,the abused, the dispossessed, and the downtrodden,who seek to eat at our master’s table—a spread of which is said a single tastecan give life to those who feast on its fruit.To us is left the task of openingthe halls of our lord unto the needy,of bandaging the wounded, of clothing the nude,of whom there is never any shortage,for in the absence of our majestyusurpers have begun to clamor for the crown,warring with each other as they groan to imposetheir own sense of power upon the realm—and there are those of our house, seduced by such ways,who join in this fray to achieve the throne,convinced we’ll never see the royal sailcrest the bright horizon to come back to our coast.Still the charge never changes Love one anotherand so to keep faith and maintain our hopewe read the annals of our sovereign’s deeds,how he first showed such care to his peoplebefore calling us to do the same in his name;our lives answering to his anointed willas we act in his stead so his subjects can thrive:keeping his house ordered, awaiting his return.
