When darkness spreads its cloak across the land,
And weary souls grow faint beneath its weight,
A spark of hope still glimmers, small yet grand,
That whispers soft: despair is not your fate.
The white pill waits, a quiet, steady flame,
Unbowed by storms, unbroken by the night.
It calls the fearful heart to play the game,
And teaches eyes to lift and seek the light.
Not blind to pain, nor deaf to sorrow's song,
It knows the world is marred by grief and strife;
Yet shows the path where weary hearts grow strong,
And carves from broken stone a gentler life.
So take it, friend, and let its promise fill,
There's always dawn beyond the shadowed hill.
The weary heart may rise and learn to sing,
For mercy crowns the night with gentle spring.
Through Christ who bore the weight of every sin,
The gates of grace swing wide to welcome in.
Redemption flows where once was only pain,
And broken souls find life and love again.
“If an artist may say nothing except what he has invented by his own sole efforts, it stands to reason he will be poor in ideas. If he could take what he wants wherever he could find it, as Euripides and Dante and Michelangelo and Shakespeare and Bach were free, his larder would always be full, and his cookery might be worth tasting." — R G Collingwood
Friday, September 5, 2025
The White Pill
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