Rest: entered into, permits mystery to unfold.
Discovery releases what was, and reaches for tales untold.
Savoring strands of story, my Spirit-girl grasps, watching and waiting. Next things.
Dancer. Intercessor. Compelled, I spin Spirit’s cocoon. As with wings.
Draw near, whose feathers cover.
Where beneath its pleated places, in sacred moments and spaces
You catch your breath. Angels hover.
Rush a rest: flee Communion.
In Sabbath: Fully rise beneath the mantle that beckons within.
Meted in Glory, man alone cannot withstand its form.
Yet he who finds his name etched into its beams, care-worn;
When in due time, fully unfurled in the Glory of the King,
It is fitted to him as a breastplate, a coat of mail, a signet ring.