Nehemiah 2:8
The cacophony chatters, rings, confuses,
What Good comes of taking all these bruises?
Grasping Hand-holds in the hardened cliff
Slipping stones Of sadness, oh faithless heart, what if?
Reality deceiving, My senses false, but
Gaze at unseen things, God sings silent melodies
Texture of the immaterial; Is that the scent of You?
What whisper hidden, rode Upon the wind?
Touch Me!
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