And where are You, but in my very thoughts and mind?
You are my heart, when it is quiet in prayer.
You are the time I spend on the grass, sitting and watching all that moves around me; never a moment devoid of wonder, when one looks and sees the Spirit.
And in dreams, where I have seen Your art drawn for me, symbols on bleeding hands....
And waking, when I hear your voice the strongest, sweet in the morning, when all is placid as the unbroken surface of a lake... What is Your music, Lord? This endless sound, it is Your name, over and over in my heart, Your name....
And when we sit and write, we are never alone. When we speak and whisper, when I confide to you my dreams and hopes, and laugh, because you are the one who planted them, so of course you must know, but still I must confess, because the heart is treacherous steep....
But God, do I not already know? And though worldly things slip by me, cunning wisdom, sleek words and deft hands... do I not stand by the bed of a dying man, and feel his seconds draining, feel Your peace in the room, and know exactly where he goes? I am blind, but not to Your work, Lord.
And you whisper things, and I hear them.
