Old Prayerbook

Opening the old prayerbook,

pages yellowing with age,

smelling musty, aged.

It’s language is archaic,

lost to another place,

to a time long ago.

Walking through the pages,

listening to ghostly voices,

that speak to the soul.

The poetry of ancient rhymes,

psalms, prayers, 

like incense rising.

In an age that rushes,

where deep language 

is cheapened.

This old book is the wardrobe,

taking us into wonders unseen.

It’s the secret gate,

leading into the garden,

of light and color.

If we dare to take time,

to step through that gate,

to tread the path 

beyond the wardrobe.

To walk slowly, patiently

to fully absorb into the self.

the meditative rhythm,

We may then see grace,

in these old words. 

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