Nothing can bring us to heaven, this side of eternity, like a spirit orchestrated, soul surrendered hour in prayer. I wrote this during a time like that, where I entered the attic hot with concerns, tied up inside and wondering where my reason was heading, but then got up from my knees refreshed, as though a cool mist soothed my fevered fists and allowed them to open in trust again.
I lift my clenched and fevered fists
Up, up toward the cliff above me,
Where God, invisible permanence,
Waits for my heart to still, just to be.
The falling, falling of His
Voice, as a gushing river,
Reassures my fears;
His beauty, retraced and luminous
Mingles in my soul’s longing tears.
Salvation’s drought of fullness–grace
Cascades at the waterfall’s base,
And rising is the mist, the mist that
Awakens, gladdens and opens my fevered fists.