Trees Are Poems The Earth Writes Upon

In Every Aspect Of The Day Jesus Was Aware Of The Father. He Beheld Him In The Clouds And In The Shadows Of The Clouds That Pass Over The Earth.

As One's Gifts Increase, His Friends Decrease.

Am I A Harp That The Hand Of The Mighty May Touch Me, Or A Flute That His Breath May Pass Through Me? A Seeker Of Silences Am I, And What Treasure Have I Found In Silences That I May Dispense With Confidence?

In The Depth Of Your Hopes And Desires Lies Your Silent Knowledge Of The Beyond.

Hate Is A Dead Thing. Who Of You Would Be A Tomb?