It’s not even a prayer, O Wild Whisper. It’s merely words strung together, bumbles of syllables and sounds, mutterings and half-finished thoughts, vain longings and (when I’m not careful) a snippet of heart truths that I prefer to keep to myself. I press on to meet you this way, to reach you this way, but what are nouns and verbs and punctuation compared to Life and Spirit? Of what usefulness are tongues, of what meaning are enunciations when all heaven sings your praises and every holy whim is more wise than my very best effort? Ah Sweet Mercy, bear to wade through my words and call me to the prudence of silence.

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