Since mid-June, or maybe before,
My soul found rhythm I can’t ignore.
The couch, the Word, a sacred space,
Where Sundays bloom with quiet grace.
We fold devotionals, open the Book,
And linger longer than we ever look.
The Bible breathes, God’s voice is near,
Each verse I read makes purpose clear.
From pages worn to whispered prayer,
His presence wraps the morning air.
And when we rise to face the week,
It’s not the world, but Him I seek.

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Posted in The Garden That Still Grow
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