- Vol. 04
- Chapter 05
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.