And it came to pass when they heard this voice, and beheld that it was not a voice of thunder, neither was it a voice of a great tumultuous noise, but behold, it was a still voice of perfect mildness, as if it had been a whisper, and it did pierce even to the very soul—
Breathe this air deeply, sister,
For they stand around you;
The trumpets in the crickets,
And the choirs in the dew.
Feel my arms encircling you in the sun.
Let it warm your most secret scars.
Let them fade and erase
On your face and arms.
Lie in the whispering quiet, my sister,
And I will run the hands I scarred for you
Out of raw, pure, perfect love,
With forgiveness over your cuts and bruises.
Lie in the sighing grass, sister,
And rest your tired eyes
Which have looked and seen too much,
But whose hope never dies.
Do you hear me whisper, sister?
I know that you try,
And I know that it’s hard,
But know that I hear you when you cry.