clothe me with the warm, tingling comfort of a freshly wrapped, newborn daughter in her grandmother’s quilt, laid down for an afternoon nap on a bed of freshly cut flowers
baptize with the anger of overthrown kings and unjustly deposed princes, suffocated and crushed at the foot of their rugged and idealistic wooden thrones by their despot advisors
empower feeble, sensitive, childish hands to carry wounded sparrows to their nests, lift up the drowning from their puddles of shame, and cripple the machines that grind our bones
fill these cups with ancient wines, spring picked tea leaves, and uncommonly strong coffees, served between our daily meals to lighten the heart and make bold the spirit.
pour out the goodness of pure and perfect rains into the leaky buckets and jars we keep to water our daily worries, crowded lives, and distant dreams of beauty and love
No comments:
Post a Comment