Beyond price

And yet, but for your grace
I would sink into the abyss
of forgetfulness, of sloth, the mire
where nothing is real or means anything
anymore.

The paper-thin parchment
of your hand reaches out to touch—
I grasp it firmly,
your warmth tells my heart
to beat again.

A wise, understanding;
your hand asks only compassionate
questions that we share.
The journey to your central core
is infinite.

It lasts seconds, minutes
that's all. Neither one needs
doubt the answer to our prayers.
Sovereignty is granted to our
touching.