My period had come for Prayer-
No other Art – would do-
My Tactics missed a rudiment-
Creator – Was it you?
God grows above – so those who pray
Horizons – must ascend-
And so I stepped upon the North
To see this Curious Friend-
His House was not – no sign had He-
By Chimney – nor by Door
Could I infer his Residence-
Vast Prairies of Air
Unbroken by a Settler-
Were all that I could see –
Infinitude – Had’st Thou no Face
That I might look on Thee?
The Silence condescended=
Creation stopped – for Me –
But awed beyond my errand-
I worshipped – did not “pray”-
I was 19 on January 9, 1994, and found myself seeking shelter from a “sudden rainstorm” while walking the streets of London with my dad. We found a HUGE bookstore, the Bookshed, and wandered through it’s rooms perusing endless rows of books. I found a small, unassuming book with a yellow and white striped cover and flipped through it’s crisp pages. My dad bought it for me and I signed my name in it, wrote my address and the date and place where we were.
Today my name is different, the address is long past and I have only memories of the place. The cover, once bright and clean, is long since lost. Now a slightly dingy and much used black cloth over a cardboard back shows the use and attention I have given this this book of prose and poetry. This little compilation fits nicely into pockets or pocketbooks. It goes on every trip with me and accompanies me on long solitary walks.
Within it are the words of a woman who seemed to know thoughts and questions unspoken in my head. I found a friend that day and she has talked to me of many things over the past 15 years.
The above poem has been my favorite since that rainy day in January when I first read it. The words have echoed and re-echoed over the years, reminding me of the sweetness of meeting with our Creator. These thoughts from another age bring a reminder of the joy of knowing, beyond a shadow, our supplications have been heard and He deserves only our adoration.
And then we worship, do not “pray”.