In sacred silence, icons stand,Windows to that Promised land.By brush and prayer, this holy art,Beckons forth the faithful heart.

It’s not what I’ve done but what I am that’s the problem. If only actions could condemn, confession would be easy.

Love effervesced under the stress, His chest expanding. The heat of His passion spewed forth in its fashion demanding escape of the light and the birth of His most guttural utterance.