The murderous Siren of comfort oft distracting us from Truth. How I sleep on, missing the secret peace in glimpses and breathes of our Home.
“Papa, we can do better” And so ignoring his guiding surgeons hand to our own feeble boats and buildings. “Papa, why so silent, why so weak?” And so shrieking and noisy wreaking ourselves as quick as we can, eighty years or more. “Papa, where is your kingdom come? Where is your will being done?” And so ever mowing our yards and buying new cars.
Onward. Ever up and up. Tear the muscles to build the Body. Create discomfort. Become microscopic and beautiful. Patterned, not important. An easy yoke is not a slumber but a work, with precious glimpse and breath, Dear Pilot, guide us ever Homeward into Thee.
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