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As the Deer: For a Secular Age


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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