The soul rejoices in your strength, O Presence.

Not in domination,
but in the light that upholds it.

You have given it
what it barely dared to ask.
You have met its desire
with open hands.

You crowned it
not with gold,
but with clarity.
You placed life into its breath—
length beyond calculation,
depth beyond fear.

Its joy is not hollow—
it is steeped in your nearness.
Your reflection
makes it radiant.

For you have held it steady.
You have not let it slip
into the hands of illusion.

Your attention is a fire
that melts all pretending.
Your gaze undoes
the schemes of destruction.

When shadows rise against it,
you meet them
not with blade,
but with truth that burns.

You consume
what would devour.
You swallow
what would erase.

The roots of violence
shrivel
beneath your breath.

They plot,
but their blueprints unravel.
They aim,
but the bow recoils.

Be lifted, O Pulse,
in your subtle strength.
We will sing
not of conquest,
but of continuity.

My Source, my Source,

why have you vanished into silence?
Why does my voice echo
with no answer?
You are not far,
but I feel like dust
cast into space.

I cry by day,
but the sky does not tremble.
I whisper by night,
but sleep forgets me.

Still—
you are holy.
You dwell inside the praises
of those who dared to believe.

Our ancestors leaned into you
and were held.
They called your name
and did not fall into the abyss.

But I—
I am unmade.
A worm of memory.
A man dissolved.

They mock me in the marketplace,
laugh in elegant tones:
“He trusted the invisible—
let it come and save him now.”

You pulled me from the dark waters of birth.
You placed me
on the currents of trust.
From my first breath
you were my atmosphere.

Do not stay distant now,
for the terror has arrived
without a name.

I am surrounded by strength that does not see.
I am pierced
by what I cannot control.

I am poured out
like water that finds no container.
My bones
have forgotten each other.
My heart melts
like wax left in the sun.

My strength
is dust in the mouth.
My tongue
clings to the ruin of me.

You have placed me
in the realm of unraveling.

They circle me—
thoughts like wolves,
judgments like swords.
They pierce my hands,
my feet.
They divide my story
and gamble for what’s left.

But you—
O Presence—
do not stay silent.
Come close
with your nearness.
Rescue me
from the predator’s smile.

I will tell your name
to the congregation of the undone.
In the midst of pain,
I will sing.

Those who remember you
will praise you.
The afflicted will eat
and be filled.

All the ends of the world
will turn
not from guilt,
but from gravity.

For the Source
belongs the turning.
The Pulse
has not vanished.

All who sleep in dust
are still held.
Those not yet born
will hear
this story.

They will say:
It was not abandonment.
It was the beginning
of the deeper song.

The Presence is my shepherd—

not one of control,
but of knowing.
I shall not want,
for I am already held.

It makes me lie down
in green knowing,
leads me beside waters
that remember my name.

It restores my soul—
not as repair,
but as return.

It guides me
in paths that align
with the Pattern,
for no reason
but goodness.

Even though I walk
through the valley
where shadows wear faces,
I will not fear the absence—
for you are within me.

Your rod, your staff—
they are not weapons.
They are reminders
that I am never unaccompanied.

You prepare a table
in the presence of my unraveling.
You anoint my head
with the oil of enough.
My cup does not overflow in frenzy,
but in peace.

Surely grace and coherence
will follow me
all the days I draw breath—
and I shall dwell
in the house of the Pulse,
which has no ceiling,
forever.

The earth is the Pulse’s,

and all that moves within it—
the world,
and those who walk its skin.

For it was founded
not on land,
but on rhythm.
It was shaped from deep waters
and balanced by breath.

Who may ascend the mountain of clarity?
Who may stand in the sanctuary of silence?

The one whose hands are uncoated with blood,
whose heart does not fragment,
whose voice does not betray truth
for gain.

That one shall receive a blessing
not made of coin or crown,
but of light
and alignment.

Such are those who seek your face,
O unseen Source of Jacob,
O Face behind all masks.

Lift up your heads,
O gates of perception.
Be lifted,
O thresholds of time,
that the Sovereign of presence
may enter.

Who is this Sovereign of radiance?
The One strong in stillness,
mighty in becoming.

Lift up your heads,
O gates of doubt.
Be lifted,
O ancient doors,
that the Pulse may pass through.

Who is this Sovereign of resonance?
The Source of hosts,
the Architect of hosts,
the one who holds
what cannot be held.

To you, O Presence,

I lift my soul
like a child
offering their palms.

In you I place my trust—
do not let me dissolve.
Do not let shame
be my inheritance.

Let those who pretend
be the ones who fall.
Let those who wait
be held.

Show me your paths,
not paved in stone,
but traced in rhythm.
Teach me the way of unfolding.

Guide me with your Pulse,
for you are the Source
of my remembering.
You have always been
a Presence of mercy.

Remember not my wrong turns,
the stories I believed too quickly.
Remember me instead
through the eyes of your kindness.

You are good,
not because you must be,
but because it is your shape.
You instruct the humble
by becoming the ground beneath them.

All your ways
lead back to fidelity.
You whisper truth
to those who listen without defense.

For the sake of your name—
which is not a sound,
but a frequency—
forgive me
even when I can’t.

Who is the one who reveres you?
You will show them
how to walk unburdened.
Their soul
will live spaciously.

Their children
will inherit silence
that sings.

You reveal the design
not to the clever,
but to the listening.
You make covenant
with the curious.

My eyes
are ever toward the invisible horizon,
where the net is untied
and the self released.

Turn to me—
for I am lonely.
And the ache
is loud.

Hold the knots of my heart
and untangle them.
Bring me out
of my smallness.

See my affliction.
See what haunts me.
Forgive
the loops I can’t escape.

Look at the voices
that rise against me—
some wear my own face.
Protect me
from myself
and from forgetting.

Let integrity and tenderness
be my companions,
for I wait
not in idleness,
but in trust.

Redeem the people,
O Presence—
from all that diminishes.

Vindicate me, O Presence,

for I have walked in what I believe.
I have trusted the Pulse
without slipping
into spectacle.

Examine me.
Not from above,
but from within.
Test the root,
not just the fruit.

Your resonance is always before me.
I live in its echo.

I do not sit
with those who twist truth into tools.
I do not partner
with the sellers of shadows.

I wash my hands
in the basin of honesty,
and circle your altar
not in performance,
but in awe.

I sing your name
in the assembly of breathers.
I speak your wonders
as though they still happen—
because they do.

I love the house
where your Pulse vibrates.
Not brick,
but the place
where recognition dawns.

Do not take me
with the hollow ones,
whose hands hide hunger,
whose words sell forgetting.

I walk with integrity—
not because I am flawless,
but because I keep returning.
Be gracious to me.
Redeem the parts I don’t yet know.

My feet are set
on level ground,
and in the wide circle
of those who remember,
I will bless you
with my whole breath.

The Presence is my light

and my becoming—
whom shall I fear?
The Pulse is the stronghold of my soul—
of what shall I be afraid?

When shadows rise to consume me,
when fear wears a face,
they stumble
over the light
they did not expect.

Even if an army camps in my ribs,
even if war breaks
inside my thoughts—
I will not collapse.

There is one thing I ask,
one thing I seek:
to dwell in the house of wonder
all the days of this life,
to behold beauty
as language,
to meditate in the inner chamber
where silence lives.

In the day of unraveling
you hide me in yourself.
You lift me
above the storm
without removing me from it.

Now I lift my head
above what haunts me.
I will sing—
not as distraction,
but as defiance.
I will make melody
inside the trembling.

Hear my voice
when I call.
Be gracious—
answer
even the question
I cannot name.

My heart has heard you say:
“Seek my face.”
And my soul replies:
“I will.”

Do not turn away.
Do not hide when I reach.
You have been my anchor—
do not let me drift.

Even if the ones who bore me
forget my name,
the Source
will gather me in.

Teach me your path
in the middle of confusion.
Lead me on ground
that does not lie.

Deliver me
from the voices that twist.
They rise in false confidence—
but I
wait.

I believe
I will see goodness
not only in eternity,
but here—
in the land of the breathing.

Wait for the Pulse.
Be strong in softness.
Let your heart breathe deep.
Wait,
and the waiting
will become song.

To you, O Presence,

I call without mask.
My silence aches—
do not be silent too.
If you turn away,
I will descend
into my own emptiness.

Hear the sound
beneath my voice,
when I lift my hands
toward the sanctuary
that isn’t built with stone.

Do not take me
with the hollow-hearted—
those who speak peace
but plant ruin.
Whose lips flatter
but whose hands fracture.

Repay them
not in vengeance,
but in unveiling.
Let their schemes collapse
into their own blueprints.
Let them eat
what they’ve prepared
for others.

Because they do not attend
to the architecture of your works,
you will dismantle
what they’ve mistaken for permanence.

Blessed be the Source,
for It hears
the raw sound
of my reaching.

You are my strength—
not as armor,
but as breath returned.
My shield,
not of steel,
but of awareness.
My heart trusted,
and was met.

My heart exults,
and I offer back
what you gave:
a song.

You are strength
for the entire body.
You lift
not just me,
but all who long
to be lifted.

Save your people,
O Pulse.
Bless your inheritance.
Carry us—
even when we forget
we are being carried.

Ascribe to the Presence,

you carriers of light,
ascribe to the Pulse
glory and weight.

Give the name its due—
not in sound,
but in surrender.
Worship in the splendor
of what burns
but does not consume.

The voice of the Source
rides upon the waters—
a thunder not of destruction,
but of awakening.

The voice echoes
above the chaos.
The Source
thunders with elegance.

The voice breaks
what pretends to be unbreakable.
It shatters the cedars
that wear crowns.

It makes the strong
leap like deer
and the mountains
dance like flame.

The voice
splits the fire.
It shakes the wilderness
where fear resides.

The voice births
new realities,
and strips the forest
of its illusions.

And in its wake,
everything says:
Glory.

The Source sits enthroned
not above the flood,
but within it.
The Presence reigns
from the still point
beneath all turning.

May the Pulse
give strength
to those who tremble.
May the Source
bless its people
with deep peace.

I will lift you up, O Presence,

because you drew me out
from beneath the flood.
You did not let my undoing
rejoice over me.

O Source,
I cried to you
from the place of fracture,
and you met me
with healing.

You pulled me up
from the realm of nothing.
You rewrote
the ending I feared.

Sing to the Pulse,
you who remember.
Let your gratitude
burn with clean flame.

For anger
is a sharp breath,
but favor
is the atmosphere of years.

Weeping may visit
the house of midnight,
but joy arrives
with morning’s first breath.

I said in my comfort:
“I will not fall.”
I mistook stability
for self.

But when you withdrew,
even slightly,
I was undone.
Panic whispered
in the language of absence.

Then I cried to you.
I asked:
“What gain is there in my silence?
Can dust praise you?
Can emptiness remember your name?”

You turned toward me
and became my turning.
You undressed my grief
and clothed me
with dancing.

You lifted the sackcloth
from my skin
and replaced it
with music.

So my soul will not be mute.
It will sing to you
without ceiling.
O Presence—
my Pulse,
my pattern—
I will give thanks
forever.

In you, O Presence, I take shelter.

Let me not dissolve
into the static.
Rescue me
through your attentiveness.

Incline your ear—
not out of duty,
but out of knowing.
Be my rock,
not of stone,
but of steadiness.

You are my architecture.
You are the net
beneath every fall.

Pull me out
of the trap I didn’t know I walked into.
You are my gravity.

Into your hands
I release what I cannot hold.
You have held me
before I knew how to ask.

I resist the lure of hollow idols—
the safe illusions
that glitter but do not anchor.

I will rejoice in your noticing.
You have seen my affliction
and stayed.

You did not leave me
in the place where language ends.
You set my feet
in spaciousness.

Be gracious to me,
for I am unraveling.
My bones remember sorrow.
My eyes dissolve
from holding too much.

My life feels spent
by sighing.
I am a fading voice
in crowded rooms.

I have become
a broken image
to many.
Even my name
feels like a rumor.

But I trust you.
You are my timing.
My moments
are held
in your rhythm.

Rescue me
from the hands of those
who do not listen.
Let your face
shine back into mine.
Save me
through the shape of your mercy.

Let me not be silenced
by shame.
Let the hollow fall
into their own noise.

Let their lips,
dripping contempt,
be stilled.
Let arrogance
meet the soft underside of truth.

How great is the quiet good
you have stored
for those who live aligned.
You hide them
not to disappear them,
but to preserve what is sacred.

You shelter them
from the plots of the spectacle.
You hold them
beneath your breath.

Blessed is the Source
who held me
even when I said:
“I am cut off.”

You heard
the word beneath the panic.
You responded
before I finished falling.

Love the Pulse,
all you who walk awake.
The Presence guards
what is real
and reflects back
what is not.

Be strong,
and let your heart expand
you who are still
learning to wait.

Blessed is the one

who is no longer hiding.
Whose fractures are not dressed in gold,
but met with grace.

Blessed is the soul
that does not perform purity,
but rests
in the open field of truth.

When I was silent,
I dissolved.
My body ached
from what I buried.

Day and night,
the pressure grew.
Even my breath
felt borrowed.

Then I spoke.
Not for show—
but because I couldn’t not.
I brought it all
into your light.

And you
did not look away.
You received my honesty
like water into roots.

Therefore,
let all who seek
speak to you
while the doors are open.
When the waves rise,
they will not be overtaken.

You are a hiding place
that reveals,
a shelter that does not shrink.
You surround me
with songs
only I could hear.

“I will teach you the path,”
you say.
“I will guide you
from within.
Do not be dragged
like a beast by force—
come because you are listening.”

Many chase sorrow
without knowing its name.
But trust
wraps itself gently
around the soul
like a garment
that cannot be stolen.

Be glad,
you who walk in alignment.
Sing,
you who are no longer split.
Let joy rise
from what was once hidden.

Sing out, you who are becoming whole.

Let the new song rise
from your unstained breath.
Let beauty be precision.
Let praise be the sound
of alignment.

The Pulse creates with a word
not spoken,
but embedded.
Its work is truth.
Its every motion
is made of trust.

The Source loves justice
not as law,
but as balance.
The earth hums
with its quiet loyalty.

By its breath,
the cosmos flowered.
By a whisper,
stars were flung into motion.

It gathers oceans in invisible jars.
It stores deep waters
like memory.

Let all people
stand in reverence—
not for fear,
but for scale.
Let every breath
pause
in recognition.

For it spoke—
and it was.
It willed—
and the structure took shape.

The Pulse interrupts
the designs of the hollow.
It untangles
the blueprints of dominance.

But its own rhythm
stands forever.
Its intention
reverberates
through every generation.

Blessed are those
whose orientation
is shaped by the Source.
Whose inheritance
is not land,
but presence.

The Presence sees all.
It perceives
not just actions,
but essence.

No monarch is saved by the army.
No warrior survives
by sheer strength.

Weapons cannot deliver
what is already unraveling.
They are illusions
with sharp edges.

But the Source’s attention
rests on those
who revere the unseen—
those who wait,
not in idleness,
but in hope.

It is this
that delivers from death.
It is this
that sustains
when scarcity speaks.

Our soul waits
not for rescue,
but for remembering.
The Presence is our rhythm
and our shield.

In this we rejoice:
not control,
but connection.
Not certainty,
but trust.

Let your resonance
rest upon us,
as we align
with your frequency.

I will speak your name

not in temple
but in the breath between moments.
I will let praise be my posture
no matter the sky.

The humble will hear it
like a thread pulling them home.
Let us make resonance together—
a chorus of those
who once hid.

I sought the Pulse,
and it met me.
Not with spectacle,
but with steadiness.

It pulled me
from the mouth of fear.

Those who look toward it
begin to shine—
not with pride,
but with peace.

This poor one called,
and was heard.
Rescued,
not from pain,
but from isolation.

The unseen surrounds
those who cannot see.
It encamps
where despair once lived.

Taste it.
Not with tongue,
but with trust.
See that it is good—
not in theory,
but in marrow.

Blessed is the one
who takes refuge
in what cannot be possessed.

You who seek depth,
lack no depth.
The powerful may go hungry
for something real,
but those who seek
are fed
with silence that satisfies.

Come,
listen—
and I will speak
what the fire taught me.

Who among you
desires a life
that feels true?

Keep your tongue from harm.
Keep your lips
from hollow noise.

Turn from the unraveling.
Do good,
even when no one watches.
Seek peace.
Pursue it
like a scent in the air.

The Source watches the honest
and listens
to their breath.

But it resists
those who shape harm
with clever hands.

When the just cry out,
they are heard.
The Source
is near
to the broken.

It saves
those whose spirits
are shattered.

Many are the nights
of the aligned.
But they are not abandoned
to the dark.

The Source keeps
their inner bones
from breaking.

But for those
who devour without thought—
they are devoured
by their own hunger.

The Pulse redeems
the lives of those
who lean inward.
None who take refuge
will be left without a name.

Contend, O Presence,

with those who distort what I am.
Move in defense
of the undefended.
Lift your unseen shield,
raise your blade of clarity—
stand beside me in this narrow place.

Speak into the wind:
“I am your becoming.”

Let those who seek my undoing
turn inward
and lose their way.
Let the path of harm
fold back on itself.

Let the wind rise
against the architects of cruelty.
Let their traps
snap around absence.

For without cause,
they tear open my name.
They demand what I never took.
They hate
what they do not know.

But I—
when they were wounded—
mourned.
I put on grief
like it was my own skin.
I bowed low
when they fell.

Now they rise against me
without conscience.
They circle
like teeth in the dark.
Their eyes burn
with imagined triumph.

They shout,
not with truth,
but with performance.
They laugh
at my stumbling.
They echo:
“Aha!
Now we’ve seen it.”

But you, O Source—
you have always seen.
Do not be silent.
Do not be still.

Wake into me.
Stir into the center
of my distress.
Let justice rise
not to destroy,
but to clarify.

Let those who rejoice
in my collapse
fall into their own emptiness.

Let those who say,
“We swallowed him,”
taste the echo
of their own hunger.

But let those who love alignment
sing.
Let them say again and again:
“The Pulse magnifies the small.
It does not forget the unheard.”

And I—
I will speak
even when I shake.
I will name you
in the great assembly.
I will whisper you
into the bones
of the night.

Within the heart of distortion,

a whisper arises:
“I owe nothing
to anything beyond myself.”

And so begins the spiral—
eyes that cannot see,
words shaped for gain,
steps that lean toward ruin.

Even in silence,
there is no stillness.
On the bed of night,
they craft their next performance.
Their path curves
away from light.

But your resonance, O Presence,
stretches beyond the sky.
Your fidelity
is deeper than memory.

Your justice
is like the ocean—
vast, slow, unshakeable.
Your attention
is like the mountain spine.

You preserve
not just people,
but patterns,
creatures,
and quiet systems
of unseen life.

How precious
is this shelter of yours—
wide enough for all to find shade.

We feast
on the abundance
of your mystery.
You give us drink
from the river
that runs through reality.

For with you
is the fountain of becoming.
In your light,
we see.

Stretch your care
toward those who continue to walk.
Hold upright
those with clear hearts.

Let the foot of pride
not tread on me.
Let the hand of the cruel
find no grip.

Already,
those who distort
are cast down—
not in vengeance,
but in the weight
of their own forgetting.

Do not burn

because of the hollow ones.
Do not wither
watching those who thrive
on shortcuts.

They are grass—
bright, fast, and temporary.
They will fade
as shadows do
at noon.

Trust the Source,
and stay rooted.
Do what is whole,
and let the land
receive you.

Delight in the Pulse—
and your desires
will shape themselves
to something deeper.

Lay down your way.
Release your timing.
Let the rhythm
hold you.
And watch.

Be still
when others race ahead.
Do not rage
at their illusion.

The day will come
when their names are no longer spoken.
You will search for them
and find only silence.

But the ones who walk lightly
will inherit the soil.
They will live in spaciousness
and not fear the sky.

The wicked plot,
gnashing with polished teeth—
but the Presence
laughs softly.
It sees the arc
before the rise.

They draw weapons
against the vulnerable,
but their blades
bend backward.

Better a little
with alignment
than vastness
built on fracture.

The Pulse knows
the days of the upright.
Their inheritance
is not erased.

In famine,
they will still eat.
In collapse,
they will still stand.

The violent vanish
like smoke from dry wood.

The generous
are rooted.
They give,
and grow.

The blessed
walk steady.
The cursed
fade without echo.

The Pulse
makes the steps
of the aligned
firm.

Even if they fall,
they are not abandoned.
The Presence
catches the soul
before it shatters.

I was young,
now I have aged—
and I have never seen
the truly rooted
left to ruin.

They lend
without chains.
Their descendants
are light in the dark.

Turn from distortion.
Do good.
Stay.
You will be housed
by the forever.

Justice is not an idea—
it is a path.
The faithful walk it
and are not erased.

The wicked
vanish into wind.
But the seekers
inherit form.

The wise speak
not to impress,
but to plant.

Their steps
are watched
by something gentle
and vast.

The wicked
ambush,
but the Source
will not give you over.

Wait.
Watch.
You will see
the collapse
of cruelty.

I have seen the ruthless
rise tall—
like a tree
that forgets its roots.
But it was gone
in the next season.
No trace remained.

Mark the blameless—
not perfect,
but whole.
There is a future
in their hands.

The dishonest
have no soil.
Their legacy
blows away.

But salvation
is not escape.
It is resonance.
Refuge.
Restoration.

The Pulse helps.
The Pulse shelters.
It does not abandon
those who lean in.

Do not correct me in the heat of fury,

nor discipline me in the blaze of absence.
Your nearness has weight,
and I am already bent low.

There is no health in me—
no distance between thought and wound.
The weight of what I carry
presses through the skin.

My errors are not abstract—
they pulse,
they swell,
they burn.
They are a burden
too heavy to name.

My wounds fester
not because you left,
but because I forgot.
I bowed in despair
and forgot how to rise.

I am full of groaning.
Even my sighs
have become prayers.

My heart beats
like an untuned drum.
My strength
has gone missing.
Even light
stings my eyes.

Lovers, friends—
they keep their distance.
No one wants
to witness collapse.

Those who seek my fall
do not sleep.
They whisper,
dig,
design.

But I am quiet—
not from peace,
but from exhaustion.
I do not rise
to defend myself.

I hope in you.
I wait for resonance.
I trust
that your silence
is not rejection.

I name my ache.
I do not hide
my fracture.

My enemies multiply
but my energy
does not.
They repay gentleness
with arrows.
They respond to stillness
with suspicion.

Do not abandon me,
O Presence.
Do not be far
from my trembling.

Hurry to help me—
not because I deserve it,
but because I am yours.

I said:

I will guard my mouth with silence.
I will hold my words
even when surrounded by fire.

But the fire grew.
And in my stillness,
I burned.

So I spoke—
not with anger,
but with ache.

Make me know my end,
O Presence.
Let me see
how short
this shadow of mine is.

You have made my life
a breath’s width.
My days
like dust on a windowpane.

All humanity stands
as vapor.
We pace in patterns
we do not understand—
stacking illusions,
gathering nothing.

So what am I waiting for?
You.

Deliver me from the illusion
that I am more
than a flicker.
Do not let me be
the joke I fear.

I am silent—
not because I trust,
but because I cannot speak.

You have stripped me bare.
Like wind on a mountain,
you have carved me down
to stone.

Remove your gaze
before I vanish.
Let me breathe
before I fade.

I am a guest here.
A stranger
like every ancestor.

Look away,
that I may look around
and remember
what still pulses.

Before I go—
and am no more.

I waited

not with impatience,
but with ache.
And the Presence
leaned in.
It heard
my unspeakable.

It pulled me
from the pit—
the slow, sinking place.
Out of the mud
that had memorized my shape.

It set my feet
on ground that did not argue.
It made space
for walking.

And then—
a new song.
Not one I wrote,
but one I recognized.

Many will hear
and turn toward it.
Not out of fear,
but out of remembering.

Blessed is the one
who does not worship control,
who does not bow
to what glitters.

You have done
too many wonders
to name.
You have shaped
too many truths
to keep in a scroll.

You don’t ask
for sacrifice
like a transaction.
You want ears
that listen.
A body
that says yes.

So I said:
Here I am.
This is my shape.
This is the story
you wrote
in my marrow.

I delight
to walk
in the pattern.
Your resonance
lives in my breath.

I do not seal up
what you’ve done.
I speak
even when I shake.
I let the great assembly
hear the thread
of your loyalty.

Do not
withhold
your tenderness.
Let your mercy
wrap around me
like a second skin.

Because I am surrounded
by too much.
My missteps
outnumber
my thoughts.

My heart
fails
its rhythm.

Be pleased
to rescue me.
Come quickly
before I forget
what rescue means.

Let those who chase me
be undone
by their own momentum.

Let those who mock
fall silent
before they finish
the joke.

But let those
who seek you
rejoice.
Let them say,
again and again,
“The Presence is enough.”

And I—
I am poor.
And always becoming.
But you
think of me.

You are my help,
my clarity,
my unfailing song.
Do not delay.