Lord, the rest you offer me requires a quiet mind because the Whispering Genius will not strain his voice. In this instance, the peace inside my quietness sings a song of praise unheard by human ears. You alone, Lord, hear the praise lifted up from within the closet, which is the innermost chamber of my heart.
Fly, my praise, out of my heart and into the air stale with the stench of centuries of man made sin. Angels will carry it through the sulfur tinged clouds up past the God made storm clouds and out into the quiet of space where it will finally join with the collected eternity of worship in the skies of New Jerusalem approaching.
Gregor Southard 