In the quiet hours, beneath the silvered hue, I fold my hands, grappling with what is true. Not to command the heavens, nor chart the skies, But to whisper the worries that within me lie.
I can’t steer the stars, nor mold the divine plan, I’m just a sojourner, doing all that I can. To the vast, unseen Listener above the thrum, I speak my heart and pray, “Thy Will be done.”
For in the tapestry, where cosmic threads intertwine, My voice is faint—a mere echo in the divine. Yet in humble tones, I relinquish my plea, A fragile hope cast on an eternal sea.
Not to alter the winds, or calm the raging storm, But to trust the One who holds all form. In the stillness, my spirit seeks to align With the pulse of the sacred, the timeless, the divine.
So I lay down my wishes, my dreams, my fears, In the lap of the Infinite, beyond the sphere. And though I can’t command, nor the outcomes see, In this act of surrender, there’s a profound liberty.
For faith is not forcing one’s will to be done, But embracing the dance with the Holy One. Thus, with each tender prayer that I compose, I find peace in the promise that He knows.
