Give thanks for the longing within,
for the hunger that will not be silenced.
Speak of the beauty that lingers still,
of the mystery that shimmers at the edges.
Seek the sacred beneath the surface;
for in seeking,
we shall find.
Once,
the world was charged with presence,
the earth sang, the heavens declared,
and we walked—sometimes stumbled—
through depths of meaning.
The rising sun, the falling rain,
the laughter of children, the labour of hands—
all spoke of grace, all belonged.
But we have forgotten.
We measure, explain, control,
yet the sacred no longer hums beneath our days.
We chase what does not satisfy,
gather what cannot fill,
reach for truth and grasp the wind.
Yet still, the holy persists—
in the kindness of strangers,
the hush of the dawn,
the echo of old songs,
the fragile touch of love.
For we are more than the sum of our functions, - lovers and not machines-
called beyond ourselves
Let us seek the ancient paths,
to be mystics in an age of forgetting,
to dream, to create, to pray.
Let poets and artists rise,
let stories be told anew.
For imagination is the lamp of the soul,
and vision a light to our world.
So do not despair,
O secular man,
a song may yet be heard.
In the breaking of bread,
in the sharing of stories,
in the longing that endures,
within the stained glass building, or
gazing at the stars,
hope may yet rise again.
— Swales, 2025

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