Sweet light, shining through my window, what glorious day do you come to preach? Alas, I am sick, I cough and I cough and I sleep. Such deep and mighty sleep I have not had for months, nay perhaps a year. God is good; there is mercy even in judgement; there is healing even in this blow.
Praise God, I am allowed to rest. Sleep has conquered me, sleep and not death; my bed, not the grave, holds me down.
There is also light. There is promise. There is hope.
God, there is trouble ahead, but you close my eyes.
Tale Told 