The Lord keeps His own—
though I will not speak His Name aloud
as queens once trembled in foreign courts,
and prayers moved beneath silence
like rivers under stone.
So I write this
from the middle of a storm
with ash at the hem of my thoughts
and weariness sitting beside me
like an uninvited witness.
“Wine that maketh glad the heart of man.”
Even now, when grief sits heavily in the room
and silence leans against the walls,
there remains something Heaven pours
that sorrow cannot fully consume.
“Oil that makes his face to shine.”
There are nights the eyes are dim,
yet mercy still rests upon the weary
like light returning after a long fast of darkness.
“O seed of Abraham his servant,
ye children of Jacob I chose,”
for His judgements are in all the earth;
and this too is among His judgements:
“For I will show thee
what great things thou must suffer
for my name’s sake.”
Some call it affliction,
not knowing certain sufferings
follow only those marked for purpose.
“Bread that strengthens a man’s heart.”
For the road is long,
and the soul grows tired carrying invisible wars;
still, strength arrives daily
like manna no hand can explain.
“Touch not mine anointed,
and do my prophet no harm.”
So the enemy whispers in vain,
and the snare laid in darkness
waits for feet it shall never hold.
“Man goeth forth unto his work
and to his labor until the evening.”
So we rise again—
though burdened,
though uncertain,
though standing in the middle of battles
we cannot name aloud.
The staff of bread is broken,
yet when I ask for quails,
He satisfieth me
with the bread of heaven.
Yet the Lord keeps His own.
Quietly.
Hidden, as in the days of queens and decrees,
where His hand was never mentioned
yet remained upon every page.