Sometimes in grief or fear our hearts are squeezed tight as if in the grip of a hand. But there is always hope that can leak out and fly free.
We are praying today for the improving health of Mr. P.
Hope - By Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.