The soul's disquiet
singes the fabric
of the human day.
The heart grown brittle
forgets how to sing,
forgets how to play.
There must be a path
leading back to hope
and away from pain,
a path where birds sing,
the world exalts,
the faltering brain
knows rest and repose;
a path to a place
like a still bower
where spirit and flesh
are reconciled
in the human hour.
Lead me, Love, to that
simple, quiet place
where the human heart
dares to show its face.
- mce
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