Hallowed Place

My thoughts touch you in whispered ways so often in the measured pace of minutes, hours called a day. As soulful, sighing breezes sway lithe branches freshly dressed by Spring, so do my thoughts caress your face with softly stirred remembering; then on some treasured token stay in homage bowed to quietly pray and lift a tribute to your grace: my God, this is a hallowed place. loudly duty calls my mind to weigh the worth of tasks I should embrace; yet, before long, my glad thoughts stray to find a shady, sheltered bay unmarred by discord's haunting sting, and there, away from all things base, I find your spirit. Ah, there we sing and dream together while far away dies the noisy din that was my day, let naught of earth this joy erase: My God, this is a hallowed place. Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson