Wednesday, November 9, 2011


Early this morning,
A bird is singing,
And the pure gift echoes,
In the heart of the heart.

This soundless sound,
With no beginning,
And no end,
Arises and subsides,
As an ocean,
With no shore.

My sweet, little friend,
You offer your prayer,
And I hear you,
As my own voice,
In worship,
On the altar,
Of Love.

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