This grace flows down to us out of your hand,
Proffered for the pilgrim's shortened rest
In fields of fescue, bent with dew. Such land
As makes the weary soul to feel refreshed.
Your grace grants rest beside the flowing streams,
And pools where all is quiet cleanse the grime.
The gates of Heaven tickle at our dreams,
And peace has brought a roadblock for a time.
Stillness of the soul in vales long dead
And banquets with such men as cause great fear
Are meant for those who trust and rest their heads
Giving love a chance to draw them near.
Patience taught all our tired souls have learned,
And we are blessed beyond what we have earned.
postscript
Day 8 of NaPoWriMo, day four of my attempt at a crown of sonnets. So exciting! Trying to keep the same basic theme while branching off into related topics.