Hear me,

not when I am strong,
but when I am scattered.
From the ends of myself
I call out—
heart faint,
voice small.

Lead me to the rock
that is higher
than this flood.
The place
where water cannot reach.

You have been
my refuge—
a tower of silence
in the middle of chaos.

Let me dwell
not just in your presence,
but in your nearness.
Let me find shade
beneath the fabric
of your wings.

For you have heard
my promises—
the silent ones.
You have known
my name
beneath all my names.

Add days
to the life of the seeker.
Let their rhythm endure
beyond spectacle.

Let them abide
before the unseen forever.
Sustain them
with truth
and breath.

So I will sing
not to be heard,
but to remember.
I will pay my vows
not out of duty,
but because you still
hear me.

My soul rests

in quiet expectation.
From the unseen
comes my becoming.

The Presence
is my rock—
not the kind that crushes,
but the kind
that does not move.

How long
will you attack
what is already trembling?
You lean on ruin,
delight in lies.

They bless with lips,
but curse with eyes.

Still,
my soul waits.
Still,
I trust.

The unseen One
is my shelter,
my still center,
my unshaken ground.

In the silence,
there is safety.
In the waiting,
there is weight.

Trust in the Presence
at all times,
you who breathe.
Pour out your heart—
not into noise,
but into the listening.

Those of high status
are vapor.
Those of low
are vapor too.
Together—
only breath
on the scale.

Do not trust
in what fades.
Do not build
your house
from theft,
even if it glitters.

If riches rise,
do not place
your name upon them.

One thing
the Pulse has said—
two things
I have heard:

Power belongs
to the Source.
And mercy
is the final word.

You repay
each one
not with punishment,
but with truth.

You—

my Source.
I seek you
with the whole ache
of my being.

My soul thirsts.
My flesh faints.
In this dry
and trackless place,
I remember
what fills.

I have seen you
in the sanctuary—
not made of stone,
but of silence.
I have felt
your power
and your nearness.

Your love
is better than breath.
My lips reach for you
in praise.

So I bless you
while I live.
I lift my hands
like branches
toward your light.

My soul is satisfied—
not with food,
but with knowing.
I sing in the night
with a mouth
that has tasted
presence.

I remember you
on my bed.
In the quietest hours,
I lean into
your shadow.

For you have been
my help.
You are the wing
beneath my fall.

My soul clings to you.
Your right hand
holds me
even now.

But those
who seek my collapse
will descend
into emptiness.
They will not own
what they tried to conquer.

Their mouths
will fall silent—
and the voice
of the one
who trusts
will rise.

All liars
will fade.
But the soul
that remembers
will sing.

Hear me,

O Presence,
not just when I shout,
but when I whisper
from fear.

Protect me
from the secret schemes,
the quiet ambushes
crafted in rooms
without windows.

They sharpen words
like knives.
Their speech
pierces from a distance.

They strike
without warning,
without shame.
They lay traps
in silence
and call it wisdom.

They conspire—
not in chaos,
but in choreography.
They say,
“No one sees.
No one knows.”

But you—
you see through stone.
You read
what was written
in closed hearts.

And suddenly,
their arrows return—
fired
into their own design.

They stumble
over the very lines
they drew.
They are exposed
not by others,
but by their own undoing.

All who see it
step back.
They speak
not in mockery,
but in awe.

The Presence is known
not by thunder,
but by reversal.
By truth
surfacing
without force.

Let the quiet-hearted
rejoice.
Let them find shelter
in the unseen.
Let their mouths
speak
what is real.

To you,

stillness is praise.
And silence
is full of sound.

Vows find their way to you,
even when unspoken.
You hear all that breathes—
and so all that breathes
comes near.

When distortion overwhelms,
you cleanse
what we cannot reach.

Blessed is the one
you draw close—
the one who dwells
not in temples,
but in your nearness.

We are filled
with the goodness
of your unseen house,
with the holiness
that lives
between the walls of breath.

You answer us
not with words,
but with awe.
With clarity
that reshapes the air.

You are the hope
of every horizon,
from mountain to ocean,
from sunrise
to forgotten village.

You set the mountains in place
with quiet strength.
You still the waves
when they forget their names.

Even the ends of the earth
tremble
and rejoice
at your signs.

You crown the year
with generosity.
You leave abundance
in your footsteps.

The hills
wrap themselves
in joy.
The valleys
shout
without sound.

The meadows sing
in green.
The fields dance
beneath sky.

And all creation,
without language,
says yes.

Shout,

not in volume,
but in clarity—
all the earth,
wake to the Pulse.

Sing the name
that has no syllables.
Let the unseen
be honored
in all things that move.

Say:
Your works are wondrous.
Even resistance
bows before truth.

All the earth
bows not from fear,
but from recognition.
It sings you
in rivers and roots.

Come,
see the turning:
how the sea became
a road,
how the current
was held
for those who crossed.

There we rejoiced—
not because we had power,
but because we were carried.

The Presence rules
not with fists,
but with stillness.
Eyes open
toward all ends.
Let not the defiant
trust in their masks.

Blessed are the ones
who still remember.
Who kept their breath
when tested.
Who passed through fire
and flood
and were not consumed.

You brought us
into abundance—
not always comfort,
but wide,
open ground.

I will come
not with burnt offerings,
but with the vow
I whispered
in the heat of ache.

I will bring
what is mine—
what I promised
when I was afraid.

Come close,
all you
who reverence
the invisible.
Let me tell you
what the Source
has done
with my voice.

I cried out
with my mouth,
and my tongue
did not lie.

Had I hidden
what is twisted,
I would not have been heard.

But the Presence
did listen—
received my breath,
held my cry.

Blessed is the One
who did not turn away,
whose mercy
was not withheld.

Be gracious to us,

and let your light
fall on our faces.

Let your ways
be known
not through thunder,
but through fruit—
your rhythm
felt across all lands.

Let the peoples
praise you,
every tribe,
every tongue.

Let them rejoice—
not because they are alike,
but because they are seen.

You guide the nations
not with empire,
but with equity.
You lead the peoples
with a hand
that does not clench.

Let every border
become song.
Let every field
remember your name.

The earth
has yielded
its deep response.
The Source
has poured out
from within.

Let the ends
of the world
wake
to this blessing.
And let all
stand still
in reverence.

Let the Presence arise—

not with fire,
but with breath.
Let those who resist
scatter like fog
in morning light.

As smoke fades,
as wax melts
in the heat of truth,
so will the false vanish
before the Pulse.

But the just—
they will sing.
They will dance
in the unseen air.

Sing to the Source,
make melody
to the One
who rides the currents.
Call out the name
that no mouth can hold.
Exult—
not in victory,
but in knowing.

The Presence is
parent to the orphan,
defender of the unseen.
The One who makes
a dwelling
for the lonely.
Who frees the captive
into belonging.

But the bitter
remain dry.
Empty.

When you marched,
O Pulse,
the earth trembled—
skies wept,
mountains bowed.
The mountain of presence
stood still—
a place no map could trace.

You poured rain
on parched ground.
You prepared
sanctuary
for the weary.

The voice came—
a chorus of many
bearing good news:
The Source has turned
the tide.

Even those
who once hoarded
now divide
what was never theirs.

The mountain of God
rises among mountains—
not in height,
but in being.
Why do others envy
what cannot be built?

The chariots of God
are not iron,
but countless.
The Presence
rides in silence
through every form.

You ascended
not to depart,
but to fill
all things.
You received gifts
and gave them—
even to the stubborn,
even there
you made a home.

Blessed be the One
who bears us
day by day.
Who holds our weight
in both joy
and sorrow.

To this One
belong escape,
release,
and return.

You shatter
the illusions of power.
You strip away
the shine of pretense.

Sing to the Source,
you who ride
the highways of sky.
Lift up
what is beyond sound.

The Voice
is ancient.
And new.
And here.

Give glory
to the Presence,
whose majesty
moves
through wilderness and city,
through soul and system.

The Source gives strength
to the people.
The Pulse blesses
with being.

Blessed be the One
who cannot be undone.

Save me,

for the waters
are at my neck.
I sink
into depths
where there is no floor.
I have cried
until my throat is fire.
My eyes blur
from waiting
for something to hold.

Those who hate me
without cause
outnumber
the hairs on my head.
They demand things
I never stole—
and still,
I must return them.

You know my mistakes.
They lie open
before your silence.

Let those who seek you
not stumble
because of me.
Let those who trust
not be shamed
by my unraveling.

I have become
a stranger
to my own reflection—
an alien
in my family’s house.

Zeal
has consumed me.
And still
they mock
what I hold sacred.

When I fast,
they laugh.
When I mourn,
they mimic.
When I clothe myself
in sorrow,
they strip me
with their eyes.

But I—
I turn to you.
In the flood of your mercy,
answer me.
Lift me
from this mud.
Let me not drown
in shadows
that were never mine.

Do not hide from me.
Draw near.
Rescue me
from shame,
from slander,
from the faces
that twist joy
into punishment.

You know my scorn.
You see
every closed door.
Reproach
has broken my heart.
I looked for comforters—
there were none.

They gave me
bitterness to eat,
sourness to drink.
They called it
justice.

Let their own table
trap them.
Let their brilliance
turn on itself.
Pour blindness
over their certainty.

Let them feel
what they inflict.
Let them wander
until they learn
to kneel.

Add not numbers
to their names.
Erase
what they refuse
to become.

But I—
I am poor.
And I ache.
Let your nearness
be my song.

Lift me
with compassion.
Wrap me
in the melody
of your yes.

Then I will praise you
with sound
rising from ash.
I will honor you
not with sacrifice,
but with breath.

The Pulse listens
to the abandoned.
It does not despise
the broken voice.

Let heaven
and earth
join hands.
Let sea
and field
resound.

For the Source
will restore
what has been scorched.
It will dwell
where ruins once stood.

The seed of those
who align
will inherit
the quiet.
And those
who love your name
will make it home.

Come quickly.

O Presence,
do not delay.

Let those who seek
my collapse
stumble on their own shadows.
Let those who gloat
taste their own silence.

Let shame
wrap around the ones
who mock my ache.

But let all
who search for you
rejoice in the finding.
Let those who love
your rhythm
say again and again:
There is still a way.

And I—
small and frayed—
I wait.
You are my help.
You are my becoming.

Do not delay.

In you,

I take refuge—
let me never dissolve
in disgrace.

In your justice,
rescue me.
Incline your ear,
even when I whisper.
Be to me
a dwelling I can return to—
a rock already carved
for my shelter.

You are
my stronghold,
my escape.

Rescue me
from the grip
of the hollow-hearted,
from the hand
of the ruthless.

For you
have been my hope
since breath first stirred
my lungs.
You held me
from the beginning—
from the womb
to the now.
My praise
has been shaped
in your hands.

I have become
a sign
to many—
a contradiction
they do not understand.
But you
remain
my strong center.

My mouth is filled
with your echo,
your quiet glory
all day long.

Do not cast me off
in old age.
Do not let go
when strength lets go of me.

For the watchers
still speak—
they whisper:
“His source has left him.
Now is the time.”

Do not be far.
Hasten.
Unmake the plans
of those who feed
on collapse.

But I—
I will hope
even more.
I will praise
without ceiling.

My mouth
will tell
of your truth
through the long hours.
I cannot count
your acts.
But still I will try.

I will come
in the strength
of what I remember.
I will tell
of your clarity,
your reach.

You have taught me
from the start.
And still
I speak.

Even to old age
and grey edges,
do not leave me
until I have told
the next
and the next—
of your endurance,
your power
beyond time.

Your justice
reaches the heights.
You have done
what no hand could.
Who is like you?

You have made me
see many troubles,
but you
will restore.
You will raise me
again
from the deep places.

You will increase
my breath
once more.
You will encircle me
with comfort.

Then I will play
my praise
on strings of return.
I will sing
with lips
you have opened.

My tongue
will murmur
your truth
all day—
for those
who sought to end me
have faded
into quiet.

May the one who leads

be given your pattern—
your sense of balance,
your rhythm of truth.

Let them judge
not with pride,
but with care.
Let the people feel
the weight of fairness.
Let the poor
be seen
and heard.

Let mountains
bear peace
like fruit.
Let hills
drip with justice.

May they defend
the vulnerable,
undo the oppressor,
and make safety
a public inheritance.

Let them outlast
the sun,
continue
as long as the moon sings.

Let them fall
like rain
on the cut grass,
like water
on waiting ground.

In their days,
may the just
flourish.
May peace
fill the air
like pollen.

Let their reach
extend from river
to wilderness,
from sea
to sea.

May false power
bow down
before truth.
Let all illusions
bring gifts
to what is real.

All leaders
shall lean
toward the light.

For they deliver
the needy
when no one else listens.
They have compassion
for the invisible,
and the breath
of the lowly
they protect.

Their name
will be spoken
like spring,
like dew on the morning field.

May abundance
rise from the soil
on every mountain.
May flourishing
flow like language
among the people.

May their name
endure beyond endings.
Let it be
like sunlight—
quiet, vast,
and life-giving.

Through them
may all find blessing.
Through them
may the world
remember itself.

Blessed
is the Source
who alone
does wonders.
Blessed
is the invisible One
whose glory
outlives the stars.

Let all be filled
with this echo.
Let everything
say yes.

Amen.
Amen.

Truly,

the Presence is good
to those who live
from the inside out—
to those
who stay clear.

But I—
my footing slipped.
My steps
grew uncertain.
For I envied
those who rise
without roots,
who wear ease
like a second skin.

They have no knots
in their days.
Their bodies gleam
with invincibility.
They do not stumble
like the rest of us.

Pride
wraps them
like armor.
Violence
follows them
like a whisper.

Their words pierce.
Their eyes glare.
They speak
as if the world
belongs to them.

They mock.
They rise
on the backs of others.
They ask,
“Who sees?”
“Who cares?”

And so the crowd drinks
from their cup—
until truth
tastes bitter.

I asked:
Have I kept my heart
open
for nothing?
Have I washed my hands
in vain?

I am wounded
every day,
corrected
every dawn.

If I had spoken
these doubts aloud,
I would have betrayed
those still learning.

But when I tried
to understand,
my mind
grew dark—
until I entered
the sanctuary
within.

Then I saw:
They stand
on hollow ground.
Their footing
is fiction.
They are cast down
in an instant,
forgotten
like a fever dream.

I was bitter,
like a beast
grasping for shape.

Yet still
you held me.
You took me
by the hand.

You guide me
with a wisdom
not made of words.
And afterward—
you bring me
into light.

Whom have I
but you?
There is nothing
on earth
that can fill
what you fill.

My body may fail.
My heart may break.
But the Pulse
is my portion
forever.

Those far from you
fade.
Those who chase
their own name
collapse.

But as for me—
to draw near
is everything.
I have made
the unseen
my shelter.
And I will speak
of all
you have done.

Why have you cast us off,

O Presence,
as if we were ash
on the wind?
Why does your fire
burn against
what was once
your delight?

Remember your people—
the ones you carried
through wilderness,
the ones you marked
as your own
when the earth
was young.

Remember the mountain
where your rhythm
once rose.
It now lies silent—
trampled,
cut through,
empty.

Enemies roar
in the sacred halls.
They plant their flags
where stillness
used to live.

Their axes
carved into the wood
like nothing mattered.
They smashed
what was holy.
They burned
what was beautiful.
They defiled
what we dared
to call home.

They said in their hearts,
"We will erase it all."
And they did.

There are no signs left.
No prophets
to interpret the air.
No one knows
how long
this silence will stretch.

How long,
O Source,
will the devourers
mock?
How long
will your name
be dragged
through the dust?

Do not hand over
your dove
to the wild beasts.
Do not forget
your broken ones
forever.

Look—
the covenant
is written
into the earth.
But the dark places
are full of violence.

Let the oppressed
be remembered.
Let the poor
praise your name
without fear.

Rise, O Presence.
Speak your case.
Do not let noise
be the final word.

You see
the constant rising
of those who hate truth.
You hear
their endless shouting.

Do not forget.

We give thanks—

not because all is well,
but because your nearness
is not undone.

We name you
in the turning.
We speak
what we know:
your wonders
do not sleep.

You say:
“When the time
is ripe,
I will speak.

Though the earth shakes
and its pillars bend,
I hold the center
steady.”

To the arrogant,
you say:
Lower your horns.
Do not lift your power
like a weapon.
Do not speak
with clenched throat.

For elevation
does not come
from east or west,
nor from the machinery
of the south.

It is the Source
who raises,
who brings low,
who sees beneath
every performance.

In the hand
of the Presence
is a cup—
its contents deep,
blended with fire and bitter root.
And all the false
will drink it
to the end.

But I—
I will sing
into the quiet.
I will name
what is eternal.

The power
of the unjust
will crumble,
but the rhythm
of the aligned
will rise.

Known in stillness,

named in hush—
your presence dwells
not in spectacle
but in recognition.

You made your dwelling
in what once was fire.
You lit up
what was hidden.

There you broke
the weapons of pride—
shields and swords
and the sound
of war.

You are more radiant
than the mountains
of prey.
The proud were stilled—
struck down not by blade,
but by your breath.

At your word,
riders froze.
The world exhaled
into silence.

You alone
are to be revered.
Who can stand
when you rise
in clarity?

From the sky,
you pronounced judgment—
and the earth
grew still
with knowing.

Even rage
will serve you.
Even chaos
will bend
toward justice.

Make vows—
not as obligation,
but as response.
Offer what is whole,
what is true.

Let all
who orbit power
bring gifts
to the One
who cannot be bought.

For the Presence
strips princes
of illusion
and reveals
what kingdoms
forget.

I cry aloud

to the Presence—
aloud,
because silence
won’t let me sleep.

In the day of my distress,
I reach for you.
My hands do not tire,
but my soul refuses
comfort.

I remember you,
and I groan.
I meditate,
and my spirit
faints.

You hold my eyelids
open.
I am too troubled
to speak.

I think of old songs
in the night,
and I search
my deepest rooms.

Will the Source
reject forever?
Will clarity
never return?
Is mercy
used up?
Has promise
expired?

Have you
forgotten
how to be gracious?
Have you
sealed up
compassion?

And I said:
This wound is mine—
the sense
that the Pulse
has shifted.

But I will remember
the years
of the Right Hand.
I will recall
your ancient rhythm.

I will meditate
on all you’ve done,
and let my thoughts
rest in your patterns.

Your way,
O Presence,
is not mapped.
No system
contains you.

You are the One
who works in wonder.
You have made yourself
known
in the unraveling.

With your strength
you freed
those bound—
the children
of the buried.

The waters saw you
and trembled.
The depths
quaked.

The clouds poured out voice,
the sky cracked
with light.
Your arrows
flashed
in all directions.

The thunder
rolled
from deep within.
Lightning lit
the unseen world.
The earth
shook.

Your way
was through the sea.
Your path
through deep waters—
and your footprints
were not seen.

You led
like a whisper
guiding 
through whatever
would follow.

Listen,

you who breathe.
Open your minds
to memory.
To the layered truths
beneath the surface stories.

I will speak
in patterns and shadows—
echoes passed
from breath to breath.

What we have heard
and felt
and lived—
we will not bury it
in silence.
We will tell
what endures.

We will speak
to those rising:
There is something
beneath the noise.
A rhythm.
A flame.
A pulse.

Let them trust
not only what glitters.
Let them remember
the center.
Let them not repeat
the forgetting.

There was a generation
who lost the thread.
They wore strength
but dropped it
when pressed.
They doubted
the very breath
that carried them.

They demanded proof
again and again.
Even while standing
in wonder,
they asked,
“Can anything real
survive this wasteland?”

And even so—
they were answered.
Again and again.
With water
from the impossible.
With sustenance
from the unexpected.

Still,
they did not see.
Their eyes were open
but turned inward.

They consumed
what was given,
but did not grow.

They praised
when full
and cursed
when empty.

Their lives were shortened
not by wrath
but by aimlessness.

Even when lifted,
they returned
to the edge.
Even when spared,
they ran
from silence.

The Presence
did not erase them.
It remembered
what they were:
a flicker,
a wind,
a thread of dust
and fire.

But they—
they remembered
only when afraid.
Their trust
was temporary.
Their words
were smoke.

Still,
the Source
was compassion.
Holding back
what could have been.
Always leaving
room
to return.

Their lives
rose and fell
like waves.
Each time
they wandered,
the thread
was still waiting.

Eventually,
from among them
emerged one
who remembered
the shape of care.
Who held
with both strength
and softness.

And for a while,
there was peace.

The sacred has been desecrated.

The places we called home
now echo with ash.

Those who held nothing sacred
have entered our thresholds,
shattered our symbols,
scattered our meaning.

The bodies of the fallen
lie in open fields.
There is no one left
to name them.
Their blood runs
like ink
through the streets.

We have become
a byword,
a question,
a wound in the eyes
of the world.

How long,
O unseen One?
Will this silence last forever?
Will your face remain turned?
Will your compassion
never return?

Let the rage
that burns in you
burn instead
against the cruelty
that thrives.
Let it find
those who have forgotten
you dwell in every breath.

For we are emptied—
not just in body,
but in spirit.
We have become
a vessel of grief.

Do not hold us
to the weight
of our ancestors.
Let the past
pass.

Meet us
in our exhaustion
with something soft.

Help us,
O quiet fire.
Not for display,
but for your own essence.

Let mercy
be your name again.
Let repair
be your gesture.

Let those who mock
feel the hollowness
of their laughter.
Let those who destroy
be undone
by their own momentum.

Let the cries
of the imprisoned
reach you.
Let the breathless
be heard.

Return sevenfold
what has been stripped—
not in vengeance,
but in restoration.

Then we—
the ones who still gather,
still hum your name
in the dark—
we will remember.

From dusk to dawn,
we will remember.
From now
until the breath runs out,
we will speak
your stillness
back into the world.

Listen,

you who shepherd dreams,
you who guide thought
like a quiet flame—
shine out again.

Awaken
your strength.
Stir the silence
with your nearness.
Come
and restore us.

Let your face
be light again,
that we may live
from the center.

How long
will you let our questions
echo unanswered?
How long
will sorrow
be our bread,
and grief
our only drink?

You have made us
a spectacle—
laughter for the bitter,
a story told
by those who do not know us.

Restore us.
Let your face
be turned toward us,
so we may become
whole again.

Once,
we were a vine
carried out
from wild ground.
You cleared space for it.
It took root,
and filled the landscape.

Its shade covered mountains.
Its branches reached oceans.

But now—
the hedge is broken.
Everything devours
what once was protected.

The wild things
feed on us.
The climb of all we built
has been stripped back.

Return,
Presence of wonder.
Look down
and see.
Touch
what your breath began.

Even the shoot
that grew from your light
is scorched.
Even the fruit
is dust.

Let your hand
be upon the one
who reaches back.
Strengthen
the pulse
that does not forget.

Then
we will not turn away.
We will not run
to hollow places.

Revive us.
Name us again.
Let your face
be our face.

And we will live.