It's the ordinary hours I hold like gold,
the kettle's hum and the hand to hold.
No grand cathedral, no famous view —
just a plain little Tuesday, and it's holy with you.

Two rivers ran from a separate rain,
found the same valley and braided a lane.
The floorboards know both our tired feet,
and the porch light hums where the evenings meet.

People wait their whole lives for the extraordinary.
But the miracle turned out to be domestic —
a shared roof learning to answer to two names,
the sacred hidden in the pouring of the coffee.

Wind the clock and set it slow,
the finest things are the ones we grow.

It's the ordinary hours I hold like gold,
the kettle's hum and the hand to hold.
Let the calendar turn and the seasons fold —
we're rich in the small, and we'll never grow old.

No headline, no fortune, no story sold —
just a door that knows us, and it's ordinary gold.