In a little grove, an old chapel, weathered and leaning . . .
In a quiet hour, a man, kneeling, praying . . .
In a deserted street, a soul in the night, broken and defeated . . .
. . . there is a Spirit.
Songs are sung by the dying
Wounds are made by the laughing
Sights are seen by the eye—
Who sees the heart’s cry?
In the forest, through the trees,
there, within a calming breeze;
In this moment, speaking naught,
here, the voice for which I sought;
All alone, I came to know
the Comforter in all this woe.
Tale Told 