I lift my eyes

to the rising.
Where does my help come from?

From the one
who shaped sky and soil—
not from idols,
not from systems.

Your foot
will not slip.
Your keeper
does not blink.

The unseen
does not sleep.
Does not grow tired
of watching.

The presence
is your shade—
not far above,
but near,
beside.

The sun
will not burn you.
The moon
will not undo you.

You are watched—
not by judgment,
but by love.
Your going out,
your coming home—
all guarded.
Now,
and always.

I was glad

when they said:
Let us go.

Let us move
toward center.
Let us walk
into stillness
built by many hands.

Our feet
stand within the threshold.
The city—
not of walls,
but of purpose—
holds together.

Here
is where we gather.
Here
is where stories
meet.

This place
was made for justice,
for reunion,
for remembering.

Pray
for the peace
of this becoming.
Not just quiet—
but wholeness.
Not just safety—
but belonging.

Let those who love it
be grounded.
Let the ones
within its pulse
flourish.

For the sake of the ones
I walk beside,
I will speak peace.

For the sake
of what I believe in,
I will seek
the good
in this place.

I lift my eyes

to the One
who is seated
beyond position—
not above in height,
but above in being.

As the eyes of the servant
follow the hand,
as the gaze of the watchful
stays fixed on the threshold,
so our eyes
wait
for the Presence
to turn.

Have mercy—
we’ve had our fill
of mockery.

Our bones
remember contempt.
The smug
walk by
unbothered.

But we
keep looking
up.

If the Presence

had not been with us—
let it be said aloud—
if the Presence
had not been beside us
when collapse closed in,

we would have been swallowed
by momentum,
by fury
we didn’t start.

The waters
would have pulled us under.
The current
would have erased us.
The flood
would have claimed
what we barely held.

But—
we escaped.

Not because we were stronger,
but because something
broke the snare.

We are like birds
freed from the trap—
wings beating
into sudden sky.

Our help
is not in inventions,
or titles,
or clever plans.

Our help
is in the presence
that shaped the ground
we walk on.

Those who trust

in what is real
are like a mountain—
not unfeeling,
but unmoved.

They remain
while seasons turn,
while noise
rises and fades.

The presence
surrounds them
like ridges
around a valley—
a boundary
that holds
without caging.

The rule of the false
will not last.
It will not stay
long enough
to bend the just.

Do good,
Presence,
to those who are whole
within.

But for those
who twist the way,
let them walk
with what they’ve chosen.

Peace
to those
who remain.

When the presence

turned the tide
of our exile,
it felt like waking
in a dream
we thought
we’d lost.

Our mouths
filled with laughter.
Our tongues
with astonishment.

Even the world
around us said:
Something sacred
has happened.

Yes—
something sacred
had happened.
We were brought back
from the edge.

Bring us back again,
like rivers
returning
to dry lands.

Those who scatter tears
will gather joy.
Those who walk out
weeping
will return
carrying sheaves—
arms full
of what once
was only hope.

Unless the unseen

builds the structure,
the builders
labor in circles.

Unless presence
guards the gates,
the watchers
lose sleep
for nothing.

It is useless
to rise too early,
to grind late into the dark,
eating bread
baked from anxiety.

The beloved
are given rest—
not as a reward,
but as trust.

Children,
those born or made,
are not possessions,
but echoes—
extensions of the future
we cannot yet see.

They are arrows
in the hands
of the awake.
Blessed are those
whose quiver
holds legacy.

They will not
be ashamed
when facing
the world—
they will speak
with courage
at the city’s edge.

Blessed

are all
who walk
in alignment—
who live
with reverence
in their breath.

You will eat
what your hands
have grown.
You will be nourished
by your own integrity.

You will be
like a tree
planted
near light.

Those beside you
will flourish—
radiant and grounded,
like vines,
like branches,
like a circle
unbroken.

Yes—
this is what it means
to be blessed:
to live
with wholeness
rippling outward.

May you see
goodness
in your city.
May you see
peace
unfolding
across generations.

Peace
to the place
you stand.

They have pressed me

since my youth—
let the story be told—
they have pressed me
since I began,
but they did not
prevail.

Their blades
cut deep—
furrows in my back,
lines of affliction
carved
by unseen hands.

But the Presence
is just.
It severed
the cords
that sought
to bind me.

Let those who hate
what is whole
be turned back—
empty,
shrinking,
forgotten.

Like grass
on a rooftop—
it grows,
then withers
before it can be
held.

No one gathers it.
No one names it
as harvest.

Let none
say to them:
“You are blessed.
We stand with you
in the name
of what endures.”

Out of the depths,

I call to you—
from the low places
beneath language.

Let your ear
bend toward my voice.
Let your presence
meet me
here.

If you kept a ledger
of every fracture,
who could stand?

But you—
you forgive.
And in that
is awe.

I wait
for what breathes.
My soul waits,
and in waiting
hopes.

More than the watch
longs for the morning—
more than silence
craves light—
my soul waits.

Trust in what endures,
for with it
is steadfast love,
and a wholeness
that overflows.

It will redeem
not through erasure,
but through embrace—
through gathering
every scattered part
and naming it
worthy.

My heart

is not swollen.
My eyes
are not raised
in conquest.

I do not chase
what lies beyond me—
the heights,
the depths,
the things
not mine to hold.

Instead,
I have quieted
my soul—
like a child
who no longer reaches
for what cannot feed.

My soul
is at rest
within me.

O seeker,
place your hope
not in tomorrow,
but in what breathes
now—
and always.

Remember

how I carried
the promise—
not out of pride,
but out of hunger
for what is real.

I would not rest.
I would not sleep.
I would not settle
until I made
a space
for the Presence
to dwell.

We heard of it
in whispers,
we found it
in the fields.
We rose
and arrived—
and bowed
before the invisible
made known.

Rise,
O Presence,
and find your rest—
not just in a place,
but in a people.

Let your light
clothe those who serve.
Let your seekers
sing for joy.

Remember the vow,
the one spoken
without spectacle—
rooted
in alignment.

If they walk
your path,
if they breathe
your rhythm,
they too
will become
a dwelling place.

For the Presence
has chosen
this ground—
not for its fame,
but for its hunger.

“I will make this
a resting place.
Here
I will remain.

I will bless
what grows here.
I will satisfy
those who hunger.

I will clothe
those cast aside
in dignity.
I will lift
their voices
in song.

A light
will rise
from this place.
It will burn
through the fog.
And those
who seek destruction
will lose
their shape."

How good—

how truly whole—
when people
dwell together
in peace.

It is like oil
poured gently—
fragrance running
down the head,
the beard,
the edges of the robe—
marking everything
with sacred softness.

It is like dew
descending
on dry mountains,
a blessing
where none was expected.

There
is where the presence dwells.
There
is where life
becomes
forever.

Come—

all you who stand
in the quiet hours,
who tend the unseen
while others sleep.

Lift your hands
toward what is holy.
Speak blessing
into the dark.

And may the One
who shaped the vast
and the intimate—
who holds sky
and soil—
bless you
from the heart
of the dwelling.

Praise what is real.

Praise the presence
from every threshold.

You who stand
in stillness,
you who serve
what you cannot see—
speak its name
with reverence.

For what is true
is good.
What endures
deserves our song.

We are chosen—
not by merit,
but by belonging.
We are gathered—
not to escape,
but to become.

The presence is vast.
It does what no hands
can prevent—
in sky,
in soil,
in ocean depths.

It lifts the vapor,
calls the lightning,
brings the wind
from silence.

It has brought down
what was built
on cruelty.
It has loosed
what was locked.
It has scattered
what claimed permanence.

Its name
does not expire.
Its memory
lives on
in justice.

It defends.
It restores.
It sees.

The idols—
they are metal,
they are myths.
Mouths with no message,
eyes without sight.

Those who make them
become them—
numb,
polished,
silent.

But you—
you who still breathe—
bless the presence.
From every house,
from every place,
from every longing—
bless.

Bless the one
who dwells in all
and fills
what once felt empty.

Give thanks

to the Source of all—
love endures.

To the one beyond all names—
love endures.

To the shaper of wonders,
who threads light through dark—
love endures.

To the architect of skies,
who draws lines between chaos and form—
love endures.

To the one who grounds the land
in deep waters—
love endures.

To the spark that called
sun and moon to dance—
love endures.

To the rhythm of stars
that know their place—
love endures.

To the breaker of chains,
who lifts the bent and bruised—
love endures.

To the one who walks
with the forgotten—
love endures.

To the presence
who makes a way
through impossible things—
love endures.

To the one who guides
with fire by night
and cloud by day—
love endures.

To the hand
that shelters the wandering—
love endures.

To the one
who remembers us
when we were low—
love endures.

Who rescues us
from the crush of weight—
love endures.

Who feeds not just kings,
but all that breathes—
love endures.

Give thanks
to the one
who is always becoming—
love endures.

By the rivers

of a foreign place,
we sat down
and wept—
our songs
caught in our throats.

We hung up
our instruments
on the trees,
for how could we play
in a place
that did not know us?

They asked us
for joy,
for performance—
“Sing us your old song!”

But how can one sing
what is sacred
in a place
that has erased
its meaning?

If I forget
the center of who I am,
let my hands
forget how to move.
Let my tongue
rest in silence
if I let go
of what shaped me.

I remember.
Even in exile,
I remember.
Even when the towers rise,
even when the walls
echo with power—
I remember.

Let those
who built their strength
on our silence
feel the truth
as it returns—
brick by brick,
breath by breath.

Let the destroyer
be undone
by what it could not kill.
Let the oppressor
face the mirror
it refused to hold.

And when the future
arrives,
let it not forget
this ache,
this vow,
this song withheld—
waiting.

I give thanks

with all that I am.
Not in secret—
but in the presence
of all that once silenced me.

I bow toward
what is sacred
and speak gratitude
into the open air.

For you have magnified
your word
above the voices.
You answered me
when I called—
you expanded
my strength
from within.

Let all the powers
hear this.
Let those
who wear crowns
bend their ears
to what truly reigns.

They will sing
of what is real—
of the radiance
that does not demand,
but draws near.

Though exalted,
you are intimate.
Though vast,
you see the low.
The proud
you pass by
without pause.

If I walk
into trouble,
you walk with me.
You stretch your hand
against what would
consume.
Your presence
is my rescue.

You will fulfill
what you began
in me.
Your steadiness
does not flicker.

Do not abandon
the thread
you’ve spun
through my soul.

You have searched me—

not like an intruder,
but like a maker
knowing the shape
of their own design.

You know
when I sit still
and when I rise.
You understand
my thoughts
before they take form.

You trace my path,
my pauses,
my pacing—
you are familiar
with every rhythm
I keep.

Before a word
reaches my mouth,
you’ve already heard
its echo.

You surround me—
behind, before—
you place your hand
not to bind,
but to steady.

This knowledge
undoes me—
it is too heavy
and too bright.

Where could I go
that you are not?
If I rise
into brilliance,
you are there.
If I sink
into the depths,
still—
you remain.

If I run
on the edge
of the horizon,
if I make my bed
in the silence—
even there,
your hand finds me.
Even there,
you hold on.

If I say,
“Let the darkness
swallow me whole,”
the night
will shine
like day.

Darkness and light—
to you,
they are one.

You are the one
who formed me—
threaded sinew
and silence,
cell by cell,
in a place
no eyes have seen.

I praise you,
for I am
made of wonder—
strange and sacred
and known.

My bones
were never hidden.
Your eyes
saw the unshaped
version of me—
each day
written
before I lived it.

How rare
your thoughts—
not counted
but encountered.
Were I to name them,
they would outnumber
the dust.

I wake
and still
you are here.

Let ruin
fall away.
Let those
who cling to harm
be known
by their own fire.

I do not grieve
with violence,
but I reject
what tears love
apart.

Search me—
again.
Know what trembles
inside.
Reveal
what needs unraveling.

And guide me—
not to ease,
but to the way
that lasts.

Rescue me

from those
who turn power
into weapon.

From hands
that shape traps
and tongues
that sharpen
like broken glass.

They stir chaos
in silence.
Their words
ignite fires
in calm rooms.

Guard me
from their net—
from the smooth lie
laid beneath
the surface.

Let their cruelty
collapse
on itself.
Let what they’ve built
for harm
crack open
in their own hands.

Do not grant them
their hunger.
Do not let
their eyes
feast on my ruin.

I know this—
presence
does not forget
the bruised.
The quiet ones
are not overlooked.

You will uphold
those struck
without cause.
You will bring breath
to those
choked by the system.

Surely,
those who live
in alignment
will dwell near
the center.

The upright
will stand
in light.