By Teresa Baker-Carl Smooth as the petals of roses, soft as a gentle rain; tender as a baby's breathing, and quiet as the growing grain, we become aware of this love He gives imperceptible as a whispered breeze curling and swaying around us cooling the soul which grieves. Heaven on high is weeping, even this Lord Who died, never afraid to enter in to the sorrows which we have so often cried. Not often knowing the comfort, nor sensing from whence it comes, we sink deeply into the weeping which longs to fill up our lungs as our hearts cry out to Someone we have only vaguely known, Who is somehow leading us onward to that comforting place called home. And there the sorrows are taken away with only the greatest of Love by He Who came down to rescue those who seek their healing above.
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