this is your ocean in its silence

an inner tempest she dares not to speak;

how many words can form the sentences

only one Author can complete?

her sailor far from home yet still she waits,

on faith and in affect

by the choice that was made.


this is to the canvas we painted,

to our Artist and His brush

to the sky collaborated;

dotted with treasures

weaved, a gentle hush.


weather not your features

face heavenward,

let your corners turn towards

the constellations we mapped

by the strokes of these brushes,

scattered in its beauty

not bound by ashes.


so for words we ask to fill these pages

for the Author to complete the ones

we left unwritten

for ink to chart the seas

not yet discovered

for His hand to pen this horizon

by each diamond.


for the rain we ask to let tears fall

for thunder to sound the heartbeat of His call

with waves come storm and lightning's veins

yet walk we will in spirit and faith;

three nails and a cross

so choose you I do

for this freedom I was given

to the Destiny He drew.


it is but aught in comparison

the things we ask,

to string these words together

for the sake of our hearts;

on hope we lay our history

the white line drawn on sand and sea.


return home, child of favor

to the place you belong,

where your treasures are hidden

in this Love you made your song;

"Trust me," said Love,

hear only His voice

let His heart be the bridge

to the destiny intertwined.

in faith I will wait,

in hope I will find

the greatest of these is love

wholly yours,

withal mine.





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