There is a thirst—
a restless, raging thirst we cannot name,
a yearning without object,
a hunger beyond the reach of reason,
a void untouched by all that can be grasped.
No logic can soothe it,
no truth can quiet its hollow cry.
We are homesick exiles, dry-mouthed,
parched in the depths of being.
As the deer moves towards hidden waters,
drawn by some ancient knowing,
so our souls are pulled—
but to what? To whom?
We move through a disenchanted world,
where once the sacred seeped
through the cracks of things,
where all was alive with whisper and wonder,
where presence was not sought
but simply found.
Now, absence hums beneath
the surface of all we touch—
a silent void
where mystery once dwelt.
We speak, yet our words return
as echoes, weightless,
stripped of meaning.
We remember when joy
was not a distant ghost—
when gathered voices
in cathedral vaults and village chapels
breathed in harmony,
tasted bread, sipped wine,
and the blessing soaked into the marrow.
The veil was thin.
Now the veil is all we know.
Deep calls to deep,
but the language is lost,
submerged in restless waters.
Currents draw us under,
weaving doubt with desire,
whispering riddles we cannot hold.
Is there something beyond the silence,
or only the echo of our own longing?
By day we wander
through landscapes stripped of wonder,
by night we wrestle
with the vast, unanswering dark.
And yet—
a whisper lingers,
faint, insistent.
Why are you downcast, O our souls?
Why do you search
amidst the ruins of knowing?
And yet,
beauty calls our name,
and we search,
for mystery that certainty cannot grasp,
for faith,
which, like a hidden spring,
moves beneath the broken ground of reason
and may once again arise.
- Rev'd Jon Swales, 2025

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