There he sits,
Folded arm, supporting weight.
A thinking man,
Carrying the trouble of saints.
How many thoughts his mind unfolds
The secret hurts and stories untold.
If I were to nudge a fraction of it out,
Could I raise those eyes? Turn up that pout?
But it is his to bear,
His to share.
Waiting is mine,
Mine is prayer.
Dwell in Bethel 