I guard the feet of those who run, beneath the weight of work and sun. Yet hung above, I’m said to bring, a touch of luck to everything.

I have no wings, yet I help you fly, Up to the clouds, then back from the sky. Step on my back, I won’t complain, The more you jump, the higher the gain. What am I?

I’m worn in photos, shared with ease, a silent sign meant just to please. No voice have I, yet still I show the joy your lips begin to know.

Mostly known by pews, choirs, and parishioners. I can be great or small, read or sung. I carry many meanings, from the world-renowned to the obscure.

I always arrive although I am never ordered. I am the guest who doesn't knock. One hundred of me, but a sting ain't one.