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Given to God,
     the worn sandals of thought
     left at a distant threshold,
one’s care is for Him alone
that His care may be for all.

Before Him, in His mystery,
the unclenching
of the fists of knowing —
     the unhanding of all things to Him,
     being in oneself nothing
     and no-one,
     the fool with open palms —
before Him, that one
might happily contain Him.

Being empty and light,
one is God, His all and His love,
held within the light —
     and one sinks as the light
     to God, through God and,
     for His sake, beyond God.

One is
a pebble turned between God’s fingers
to be tossed
into the pool of His everlasting clearness
     that His hand might be free.

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