Streams of Comfort

In all our haste towards the end,
We forget to breathe.
An ill-fated fait acompli.
The hot, bright anger we hold,
Will not shake its hold on us.
Blinding us from a better way.
Though wise men say to wait,
Until the storm passes.
It never does.
Yet, the Holy Spirit who clothes us in grace,
Allows patience to bloom.
Calming the storm.
In all our haste for revenge,
We forget the Lord.
Who says to be still.
Be still
Be still
And perhaps, breathe.
Alice R, 8/1/24