PerGoSeeMo Psalm 4

Psalm 4. John 6:66-68; Hebrews 11:1

            When there is no muse to inspire,

When mind, body, and spirit tire,

Wearied by the mining

And refining of the precious ore of story;

            When all doors before which I stand

Stick fast beneath my straining hand,

Or else fly open to a maze

I’ve days, weeks, months in wandering,

Only to find I’ve found naught but my starting place;

            When blood and sweat and words and tears

And prayers and wishes made for years

Yield little that despairing eyes

Surmise as being worth the while:

            What then?

            What next, when nothing’s left?

            To what else would I go?

            I’ve found the home where heart resides,

And though I wait for change of tide

Another three-and-twenty fours of seasons,

I believe in that which I cannot yet see.

            When I talk as if to air,

My senses saying nothing’s there,

And ask for any sort of sign on which to hold

When told by you I’d but to knock and enter;

            When others shout or sigh in bliss

For some rapture I somehow missed

Despite, I thought, a daughterhood

Of good and faithful service, more or less,

Perhaps more less than more, but surely

It all counts for something;

            When I doubt not you, but me,

Unsure of what you’d have me be,

And blindly grope for light I read–

You said– was in plain sight for all who seek:

            Who’s there?

            Please show me you are, for

            To whom else would I go?

            I know the truth, I trust the way,

And though I live to my last day

Not having any more of you than words and deeds of yore,

I store my hope in that which I cannot yet see.

            See, no.

            Feel? Nearer now. May your

            Arms draw me nearer still.

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