I remember fondly, as a child I’d seek the rainbow’s end.
I’d brave the showers that brought it, and I’d follow its bright bend,
For I had heard the tales – the wondrous stories that were told
Of how this bow of colours ended in a pot of gold.
But now it’s said, its meaning’s changed; no longer it’s a sign
(Though seven hues not rearranged; its arcing form as fine.)
Of treasure everlasting; of the promise and the power
Of the One whose light via raindrops makes a multicoloured bower.