Yes, you are tired,
it hurts, you are weak;
the stubborn pewholders are locking their pews,
the church doors are closed on Sunday afternoons;
and every sabbath morning hearts and ears are locked;
the harvest falls daily upon the hardest soil
and while you speak to parched, dead bones, your throat too grows dry.
But there is something you can’t see,
a plant with roots deeper than
the depths of your worst fear:
it grows where mind can’t fathom,
it drinks from silent streams;
reaching past the canopy
of all your expectation.
Stand;
it will not fail you.
The roots are stronger than you could guess.
Stand:
let fear fall to the wind.
Your Lord is a prowling lion,
with no need of defence.
The Consolations of Writing 