These words are far too precious Lord,
For my oft wayward thoughts,
To teach me of all joy and praise,
And through deep sorrow's cup,
But here between my hands are life,
That I will hold so near,
Like glory from your holy mount,
To hide away so dear.

Running out of words,
I find myself in open meadows,
Spacious in the fallen chatter's echo,
The air is richer with sole babbling streams.

How one longs for friendship without words,
Yet prattles on in fear and harsh forgetting,
That good company not chatter is a blessing,
That to be known - to walk beside,
Continues where mere words can hardly dream.

March to bed,
I should have turned in,
Quite a time ago,
But alas I sit here late,
And poem for a silly consequence,
Of pushing sleep to other hours.

Tears of love stain the cloth,
And dripping drops plummet before they stop,
And shatter on the pavement.

Spread your seed out in the open,
May it land on the good soil,
Lead your sheep to be more patient and gracious,
May my words follow your true sword,
We both know I can't do it Lord,
May your strength be in my every motion.

Hey eye-opener,
Little drained after that one,
I'm sorry for trying to carry more than I should have,
I leave it in your hands.