Sing aloud

not to forget pain,
but to remember joy.
Lift up sound,
strike rhythm,
let music
rise like breath.

Bring strings
and resonance,
let the horn
cry out
at the new beginning.

This is a rhythm
older than law,
carried through generations—
a voice
that echoes through the bones
of the wandering.

“I lifted
the weight from your shoulders.
I freed your hands
from what crushed them.
In your need,
you called out,
and I answered—
not in thunder,
but in mystery.

I tested you
in the silence.
I asked:
Will you listen
when there is no spectacle?

Do not shape new idols
from your fear.
Do not pour yourself
into what cannot hold you.

I am the breath
that brought you out—
open your mouth wide,
and I will fill it.”

But they would not.
They loved the noise.
They followed
what glittered
but did not endure.

So I let them go—
let them walk
in their own patterns,
let them taste
what they thought they wanted.

If only they would turn—
even now—
I would quiet the ache.
I would undo
the ruin.
I would satisfy them
with what is real.

With honey
from stone.
With grain
from the wind.

The Presence stands

in the midst of power,
and speaks
to those who govern:

“How long
will you twist the scales?
How long
will you favor the weightless lie
over the grounded truth?

Defend
those without a shield.
Lift up
those the world overlooks.
Deliver the forgotten,
the misnamed,
the cornered.

But you—
you walk in shadows
and call it light.
The foundations
tremble
because you do not see
what you are standing on.”

You believed
you were untouchable—
bright as stars,
safe as sky.

But you will fall
like anyone.
You will fade
like dust in wind.

Rise,
O Presence.
Unmake the illusion.
Restore balance
to what has fractured.

For the whole earth
belongs
to the silent pulse
that no crown
can claim.

O Presence,

do not remain quiet.
Do not stay still
while the storm gathers.

Your adversaries
whisper in meeting rooms.
They conspire
with sharp smiles
and polite malice.

They say:
“Let us erase them.
Let their names
vanish from memory.”

They form alliances
rooted in fear,
built on hunger
for control.
They join forces
not out of love,
but out of shared shadow.

Let them be
as wind-driven seeds,
as dry leaves
in fire’s breath.

Chase them
with the whirlwind
of truth.
Disorient them
with the storm
of clarity.

Fill their faces
with awe—
not to shame,
but to awaken.

Let them know
that you
are not a tool,
not an idol,
not an artifact.

You are the flame
beneath all things.
You are the name
that names us.

Let them remember
what it means
to be human.

How beautiful

is the place
where your presence lingers.
My soul
yearns
and stretches toward it—
even my body
sings with desire.

The sparrow
has found a corner,
the swallow
a nest for her young—
and I
am still searching
for that resting place.

Those who dwell
in your nearness
carry songs
in their breath.

Blessed are those
whose path
is carved within—
who walk through
valleys of drought
and leave behind
springs.

They go
from strength
to strength,
until they stand
in full knowing.

Hear me,
O unseen One.
Listen
to the pulse
that shaped me.

Be my shelter,
my lens,
my light.

One moment
in your radiance
outweighs
a thousand
elsewhere.

I would rather
stand
at the edge
of your stillness
than dwell
in the glitter
of what forgets you.

For you
are sun
and shield—
grace
and gravity.

You do not withhold
what is whole.
You bless
those who walk
with open hands.

You have shown favor

to the fractured.
You have gathered
what was scattered.
You have quieted
the storm
we made ourselves.

You lifted the weight
of failure.
You covered the ache
without denial.

Now again—
will you bring us back?
Will you breathe
on the embers
of what we once were?

Will you be angry
forever?
Does your silence
stretch across all time?

Revive us,
not for spectacle,
but so joy
may rise
from within us.

Show us your love
not just in memory,
but in this breath.
Unfold your nearness
once again.

Let me hear
what you are really saying—
peace,
to those who listen.
Peace,
to those who lean in.

Let them not
return
to hollow things.

Surely,
your presence
is near
to those who are not far
from themselves.

Mercy
and truth
have met.
Clarity
and kindness
have embraced.

Truth rises
from the soil.
Justice leans
down from above.

The Source
gives what is good.
The land
responds
with fruit.

Justice
walks ahead,
carving a path
for presence
to follow.

Bend your ear

and hear me—
for I am undone,
but still reaching.

Guard me,
for I belong
not to perfection,
but to trust.
Save the one
who leans wholly
on you.

Be gracious—
I call to you
all day,
from within the ache.

Lift the soul
that sinks slowly.
Expand my heart
with your pulse.

For you are good,
always returning.
You abound
in mercy
for those who turn
and turn again.

Give ear,
O quiet center—
listen
to my voice
in the storm.

In the day of trouble
I call,
and you
are not far.

There is none
like you
among the shining.
No work
that mirrors
your unfolding.

All paths
will one day
bend toward you.
Every pattern
will name
your pulse.

For you are vast,
and near.
You do wonders
with silence
and time.

Teach me
your way,
that I may walk
without fracturing.

Unite my scattered self,
that I may live
in alignment.

I will give thanks
from the root.
I will honor
the truth
of your name.

For your mercy
has held me
when I was dissolving.
You have drawn me out
from depths
no one else saw.

The proud rise
with cold hands,
a tide of harm
with no center.
They do not see
you.

But you—
you are presence,
compassion,
slowness to wrath,
flooded with love,
grounded in truth.

Turn toward me.
See me.
Give strength
to this soul
you formed.

Show me
a sign
of your yes.
Let those who seek
my fall
see instead
that I am held—
and be silenced
by wonder.

The foundation

rests in the high place—
not of status,
but of presence.

The unseen
loves what is becoming.
It favors not the tallest tower,
but the city of soul.

Glorious things
are whispered
of this dwelling—
not made by hands,
but shaped in longing.

They say:
This one was born there.
And that one too.
Even the stranger,
even the wanderer—
they belong.

The Pulse
records names
not by nation,
but by rhythm.
“This one was born there,”
it says,
again and again.

And all who pass through
find their music here.
Every voice,
every wellspring
flows from within.

O Presence,

my breath in the black hours,
I cry to you
from within the hollow.
Let my voice
reach you
before the light.

For my soul
is weighted—
not with sin,
but with sorrow.
My life
tastes of absence.

I am counted
with those
who do not return.
I have become
a shadow’s outline,
a memory
without volume.

You have placed me
in a pit
beneath knowing,
in depths
where no echo comes back.

Your silence
presses like stone.
Every wave
of distance
crashes over me.

You have taken
all familiar faces,
made them
strangers to me.
I am shut in,
and the air
does not open.

My eyes
dim
from so much searching.

I call out—
every day.
I stretch
my hands
to the unknown.

Do you work wonders
from the grave?
Do the vanished
rise to praise you?

Is your compassion
told
in the land
of forgetting?
Is your truth
spoken
in the closed dark?

I cry to you.
My prayer
wakes with me.
Why do you
hide your face?
Why am I
erased
while still breathing?

I have borne this
since youth—
this unraveling,
this fear.

Your shadows
have surrounded me
like water.
They swallow
every sound.

Friend
and neighbor
you have removed.
Only darkness
remains
at my side.

I will sing

of enduring mercy—
of love
that stretches beyond time.
With my voice
I will shape a path
for your truth
to walk through.

For I say:
Love is not a mood
but a structure.
You built the world
on constancy.

You wrote
the rhythm of stars.
You shaped the sea
with invisible hands.
You split the silence
and called it sky.

You are clothed
in presence,
surrounded by awe.
No one can approach you
without being undone—
yet still,
you draw near.

You quiet chaos
with a glance.
You dance
on what others fear.

The sky belongs to you.
The ground
under our feet
was yours before feet.

North and south
rise and fall
at your word.
Everything sings—
whether it knows it or not.

You have a mighty arm,
but your power
is not brute.
It is balance—
justice and mercy
walking together.

Blessed are those
who know the sound
of your movement.
They walk
in the light
of your face.

They rejoice
not in wealth,
but in resonance.
They are lifted
by your nearness.

You are their strength—
not as shield alone,
but as vision.

You once spoke:
"I have anointed one
with the oil of my delight.
My hand will not fail them.
My promise
will not bend."

You said:
"I will not lie
about what is sacred.
I will hold this line
even through generations
that forget."

But now—
now we see collapse.
The walls are broken.
The promises
look cracked.

You have removed
the crown
from their head.
You have let
mockers gather.
They are clothed
in defeat.

You cut short
what was rising.
You drowned
the future
before it could speak.

How long?
Will you hide
your face forever?
Was the vow
only for light
and not for shadow?

Remember—
we are dust
wearing names.
Our lives
pass
like breath
on glass.

Where is the love
you once declared?
Where is the echo
of your yes?

Look
at what has been
stripped away.

And yet—
blessed
be the One
beyond the frame.
Beyond the arc.
Beyond decay.

Let that be enough.
Let that be
Amen.

You have been

our dwelling,
before we had names
or language
or bones.

Before mountains rose,
before the earth
woke from silence—
you were.
You are.

You return us
to dust,
and say,
“Begin again.”

A thousand years
are to you
like one sigh,
like a brief shimmer
before dawn.

We are swept away
like dreams.
We are grass
that leans toward light
in the morning
and folds inward
by night.

We spend our days
under the weight
of what we cannot control—
and the mirror
of our own shadow.

You see all.
Even what we hide
from ourselves
is clear in your gaze.

Our days vanish
like breath
on glass.
We measure them
in sighs
and uncertain hours.

Teach us
to number our days—
not to fear them,
but to fill them
with clarity.
So we may grow wise
from the inside.

Turn back toward us.
Let your quiet
break.

Satisfy us
in the morning
with the taste
of your kindness,
that we may sing
even through sorrow.

Let our hands
create what lasts.
Let our work
be rooted
in what matters.

And let the beauty
of your presence
rest upon us—
soft,
like a final light
on closing leaves.

Those who dwell

in the quiet
beyond noise,
who rest
in the shadow
of what is not shaken—
they will say:

"My refuge is
the one who holds
what cannot be named.
My shelter is
the presence
beneath all fear."

You will not be caught
by the snare
that waits in silence.
You will not be undone
by the whisper
that travels in the dark.

You will walk
through shadows—
but you will not
be swallowed by them.
You will see collapse
but remain standing.

Because you have made
the invisible
your home,
no harm
will define you.

Even in the wild—
you are held.
Even among ruin—
you are seen.

The path will open.
The ground
will remember your steps.
You will not stumble
beyond repair.

You will tread
on the symbols of fear,
on the illusions
that once ruled you.

Because you have known
my name
without needing to speak it,
because you have leaned in
when all else pulled away—
I will be with you
in trouble.

I will lift you
with tenderness.
I will satisfy you
with a long seeing—
and show you
the shape
of what saves.

It is a good thing

to give thanks—
not out of duty,
but because it returns us
to center.

To speak your name
at the edge of day,
to murmur your presence
when the night unfolds.

To move with sound—
strings, rhythm,
notes rising
from the still place.

Your works
make me glad.
Your thoughts
are deeper
than what can be named.

The unaware
do not perceive them.
The shallow mind
cannot trace them.

Though the destroyers
rise like weeds,
though illusion
blooms briefly—
it is all vapor.
They dissolve
without root.

But you—
you are
endless motion,
endless stillness.

Your clarity
cuts through confusion.
Your presence
outlasts decay.

Those aligned with you
will flourish—
not always with ease,
but with integrity.
They will grow
like trees
planted in the real.

Even in age,
they will bear fruit.
Even when the world
calls them done,
they will be green
with renewal.

Their lives speak:
There is a foundation.
There is a pattern.
There is one
who is not swayed
by appearances.

The Presence

is robed in motion,
clothed in strength
that does not break.

The world is not
held up by chance—
it is anchored
in rhythm.

Unshaken
from the beginning,
the pattern
was laid down
before time
knew its name.

The waters rise.
The waters rise.
The waters
lift their voice.

But more powerful
than floods,
more vast
than crashing waves,
is the stillness
beneath all movement.

Your voice
is steady.
Your dwelling
is wholeness.

What you are
endures.

O source of justice,

O presence who sees,
how long
will the arrogant
go unshaken?

They speak
as if nothing holds them.
They crush
with words,
with systems,
with silence.

They target
the vulnerable—
those without shelter,
without title,
without shield.

They say,
“No one sees.
No one hears.
This world belongs
to those who take.”

But understand,
you who claim wisdom—
if the ear was formed,
do you not think
it hears?
If the eye was shaped,
do you not think
it sees?

The Presence
knows the inner frame—
how thoughts unfold
before they’re spoken.

Blessed
is the one
you teach gently,
who sits with silence
and learns from it,
even as the world
burns with noise.

For there will be
a turning.
A reckoning
not of revenge,
but of balance restored.

Will false rule
be joined with you—
those who write injustice
into law?
Those who trap
the innocent
with paper
and power?

But you
have been my refuge—
a quiet fortress
when my mind
nearly split.

When I said,
“I am slipping,”
your kindness
caught me.

When anxiety
multiplied within me,
your presence
was the answer
that needed
no words.

Can the throne of destruction
stand forever?
Can oppression
rule unopposed?

They gather
against what is good,
they sentence
those who are clean.

But the Presence
is my clarity,
the ground
beneath my ground.

The Source
returns destruction
on the path
of the destroyer.

And what is false
will fall
into the hole
it has dug.

Come,

let us open our voices
like morning.
Let us raise sound
to the one
beneath all sound—
to the foundation
we cannot see
but always feel.

Let us enter
with gratitude,
with rhythm,
with resonance.

For there is a depth
greater than height,
a strength
that holds stars
and skin alike.

The sea is held
in open hands.
The hills lean
toward their name.
The valleys
carry echoes
of something older
than history.

Come—
let us bow,
not in fear,
but in alignment.
Let us kneel
into the ground
that remembers us.

For we are
the flock,
the murmuration,
the constellation
of small lights
led by a pulse
that does not deceive.

Today—
if you hear this voice,
do not harden.
Not like before,
when rest was offered
and refused.

Not like the time
when everything
was provided,
and still
we asked for more.

For forty years
the path was long—
not because of distance,
but because of resistance.

They knew
the road,
but not the rhythm.
They saw,
but did not perceive.

So they wandered
outside the stillness.
They circled
the gate,
but never entered.

Sing a new sound

into the old world.
Let it rise
from places
long silenced.
Let every voice
find the shape
of joy.

Sing to the presence
who holds all things.
Sing to the unseen
who breathes through everything.

Tell the truth
of what endures—
each day,
let it unfold
like light
over water.

Among nations,
say:
There is a center.
There is a steadiness
that will not shift.

The world
is not spinning
out of control.
There is something
beneath it
that does not yield.

Let the sky
shout its color.
Let the earth
dance without shame.

Let the sea
roar in its language,
and the fields
answer with sway.
Let the trees
clap their limbs.
Let the forest
join the song.

For the Presence
is coming—
not in fire,
but in balance.
Not to destroy,
but to weigh
with fairness.

The world
will be judged
with clarity.
All people
with truth.

The Presence reigns—

not with armies,
but with gravity.
Let the earth
open wide.
Let islands
tremble in delight.

Clouds wrap the silence,
but fire moves
through its core.
What is false
melts before it.

Lightning splits
the sky’s closed face.
The earth sees
and breathes.

Mountains dissolve
into clarity.
They bow
not out of fear,
but recognition.

The skies
declare your pulse.
Every horizon
reflects your name.

Let all that is made
rejoice—
not just what is comfortable,
but what is true.

False powers
fall quiet.
Empty images
shatter.

Those who once worshipped
what they made
now turn
toward what made them.

Zion hears and is glad—
not a place,
but a people
aligned.

You,
Presence unseen,
are above distortion.
You outshine
all facades.

You love
what is just.
You hold
what is whole.
You protect
those who walk
with light in their bones.

Light is sown
like seed
for the grounded.
Joy blooms
for those
whose hearts
are clear.

Rejoice
in the One
beyond names.
Give thanks
to the heat
of what is right.

Sing a new sound—

not recycled praise,
but a song
shaped by now.

For the Presence
has done something
unexpected.
A mystery
has stepped forward
in plain sight.

Clarity
has not been hidden.
Love
has not been lost.

Every land,
every people,
has seen
the hand
that opens
instead of closes.

Make a joyful noise.
Let the ground respond.
Let joy
be uncontained.

Bring your voice.
Bring your instrument.
Let strings tremble,
let brass call out.

Let even the rivers
clap.
Let the hills
shout back.

Why?
Because something true
is coming.
Because balance
is on the way.
Because the world
will be judged
by something real—
not by appearance,
but by essence.

Justice
will not pass us by.
Truth
will not be delayed.

The Presence

is not far off.
It moves here,
now—
and the world
shivers in its wake.

It sits
between what we understand
and what we cannot name.
Let all
tremble—
not from fear,
but from awe.

The unseen
loves justice.
Not the justice of vengeance,
but of balance,
of things made right.

It has established
what holds.
It acts
from clarity.
It speaks
from truth.

Lift up the Source—
not with noise,
but with stillness.
Let your mind bow,
let your bones listen.

Those who walked before
heard the same voice—
in fire,
in cloud,
in silence.
They called,
and were answered.

They were guided
through unseen corridors,
held to account
with grace.

Lift up
the unseen.
Come near
what you do not control.

It is holy.
It is whole.
It is here.

Make a joyful sound,

all the earth—
not because everything is easy,
but because everything matters.

Serve
with gladness.
Come close
with singing.

Know this:
you are not self-made.
You are shaped,
held,
named.

We belong—
not to systems,
not to images,
but to something
deeper.

Enter the space
with thanks.
Cross the threshold
with praise.
Speak good
of what is good.

Because the Presence
is not fleeting.
Its rhythm
is steady.
Its love
outlives generations.
Its truth
outlasts doubt.