Lost…then found in Rest.

Yet Still, in storm and tempest be, in darkness or in Light;
the Path, the Way so hardly can be seen,
though sight be blinded, founded firm;
most strongly Resteth there.
The bed of restlessness changeth instantly,
into one of deeply, softest, mist,
shrouded now not, He forthwith shown assuredly.
For in ones reaching, stretching ever more to but attain to Him, indeed already thine is oned in Him.
The strangest answer of thine own expectation, longing met in Resting ever still, for all at once thy hunger starts, the thirst for more is oned, it’s perfect match so paired to Him, and never once was part, though it did seem so.
The apprehension of this knowing seeming impossible, now tis all that one can glean.
The knowing and the showing in all but space nor time nor knowing could forth tell,
for only in the self same space tis all of it made well.

How can it be, that Rest that be
By nature Peaceful, yet at self-same time
entirely exhausting?
It is a work, the one of Stillness
To perform, attaining yet unhurriedly
Does the all of self, in stretch and strain
Requiring and engaging all efforts – yet none of thine own strength, for none forbear to be, every fibre of ones being alive and working while at Rest.
In Rest, thine work, now found resplendently.

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