In chambers of the heart, where sorrows sleep, And echoes of a silent anguish creep, A tender current, gentle, soft, and low, Begins through shuttered, wounded rooms to flow.
It does not judge the reason for the tear, Nor question how the shadow fell, or where. It asks no price, it keeps no careful score, But simply comes and opens up the door.
It is the hand that reaches in the dark, To steady trembling, and to leave a mark Not of its own, but of a shared embrace, Reflecting dignity on every face.
It is the quiet presence by the bed, The silent understanding for words unsaid. The shelter offered from a bitter wind, A balm to soothe the agitated mind.
So let it rise, a river, clear and deep, To wake the weary soul from troubled sleep. For in the giving, we receive the grace, And find our own humanity in that space.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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