I don’t know what it is about this place,
Perhaps it reconciles the heart that’s become displaced,
Maybe it’s just the direction I face,
Keeps me subtle and silken,
Like a soft fingernail trace.
Maybe it’s the ray of warmth I feel as I begin to pray,
Or the spiritual poverty that overcomes me when I have nothing to say,
It’s Him, he calls me, ever to his way,
Be hasty, come,
Don’t waste another day.
It’s ever the aching that brings me here,
But the tranquillity and mending that keeps me near,
Gone are troubles, worries, banished is fear,
Awash with with cleansing,
Through heaves and tears.
A hidden pocket amongst wrought iron and brick,
The sanctuary open for the spiritually sick,
Worry not of your folly or sins so thick,
All will be forgiven,
If you gather your soul to sit.
Subdue the ego, and destroy it’s pleasures,
The bounty awaits of immeasurable measures,
Once the washing takes place, lift light as a feather,
And drown in contentment,
The unvanquished treasure.