A quiet prayer upon a humble bed,
Where whispered dreams and modest hopes are shed.
We count our strength, and find the measure small —
A single leaf against a towering wall.
Yet heaven’s math defies the human scale,
Where mortal plans and anxious efforts fail.
He takes the spark, the fragment left behind,
And shapes a future wonderfully kind.
A thousand streams where only drops had flowed,
A mighty fortress on a quiet road.
No need to force the blossom or the spring;
We rest beneath the shadow of his wing.
In his appointed hour, the light breaks through,
To prove his ancient promises are true.
No start too small for his almighty hand,
To build his purpose and fulfill his land.
© Frieda Norma Dela Cruz
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