Sonnet 211

Most mortal prayers will lose their way to heaven
But not the one that brought you here to me,
Those silent moments to which thoughts be given
Were filled with orisons of love to be.
You by my side, at vespers, most requested,
In earnest hope if not in plenitude;
Each evensong my faith in God so tested,
That aching heart soon fill with gratitude.
Now still I pray but with a muted ardor,
More oft in thanks for all I have received;
This prize so great, what more could one man garner,
You in my arms, no bounty could exceed.
Matins now find me thankful for each day,
Though God decides, may this forever stay.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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