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Come into the misty morning—|
where the twilight is at play;
where the God of stillness blesses the worshipping creatures
who with reverent joy are welcoming the day.
Leave the world, oh pilgrim,
come whatever may.
For the God of stillness calls from the quiet—
He’s waited a long time, and has something to say.
There is a peace that’s missing—
a song long left unsung.
Inside there’s still a child, and a forgotten ladder—
let him guide you up each wrung.
Sit down and stay with Me,
The God of stillness, come and visit a while.
This dream has been woven for you,
though time has passed, you are so precious to Me, that same special child.
These mists are like a doorway—
knock, it will be opened unto thee.
For though grown, the child still has questions:
why let evil rule; and so many babies murdered; did you have to die on a tree?
Through these mists of beauty
there’s the comfort of staff and rod—
child, My Grace is sufficient for thee. . .
be still and know that I am God.
This poem is © copyright by mark macdonald