To those who bristle at music,
that once brought comfort,
Who’s book now holds coffee and guilt.
Those who can’t think of Him or can think of nothing else.
Who rages against him.
And wonders if he exists.
You who see his
a prince of peace
a prince of panic
You who free fall in doubt
Gripping newfangled beliefs.
There are handholds along the well you’re falling down.
Remember that peaceful place?
When your spirit was at rest?
Was it a garden? Along streams?
Your spirit unabashedly fixed on something you still believed?
It’s all awash in doubt now
but there are stones under foot.
Don’t trade your blind belief
for a different kind of certainty.
Your credence can be a wallflower
checking it all out.
To you, dimly burning wick,
keep watch and hold on.