The sun reflecting off the paper momentarily blinds me sometimes,
so that I cannot write the elusive thoughts and feelings I almost had within my grasp.
And when after a pause I am able to write again the ideas have fled.
Like so many winged creatures of the sky. I am a messenger but not a poet.
I am a vessel yet not an author. My thoughts are not my own.
The words that spill forth from my pen are gifts from one higher than I.
All that I do, All that I see, All that I have, are from Him.
I give thanks to God and pray that his message is not garbled along the way.
That my lowly mind might interpret his meaning.
I praise Him for being so wise.
For surely I, a human imperfet in every form, cannot possibly accept credit
for the thoughts given from Him.
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