Peace of the Wild Things
On quiet fields, ancient hymns, and the peace that lives beyond our troubles
Muntjac deer and squirrel sharing the garden at dawn.
The mist unspooled from the river like a silver hymn. Martha leaned upon the gate, her flock of sheep grazing in slow, ambling patterns across the waking land.
In that soft hour, the veil thinned.
She saw—or dreamed she saw—a figure moving through the meadow, robes shining with morning’s dew, bare feet stirring the buttercups.
And the lambs bowed their heads, the thorns blossomed, and the stones shone beneath his tread.
And did those feet in ancient time… she remembered—the old hymn etched deep in the marrow of the earth.
The daydream deepened. The wild things spoke in the bright breath of the blackbird, the rustle of wings, and the hush of grass bowing to the light.
There was no need for bargaining or negotiation, no coin for salvation. Only this covenant, old as Eden:
Peace for Presence.
Light for the Journey.
Love for All.
She closed her eyes, letting the troubles of men—their ledgers, their griefs—fall away like worn cloth.
When she opened them, a lamb stood at her feet, gazing up with solemn, unknowing grace.
Martha knelt, offering her open hands to the earth and boundless sky. And the world, radiant and ancient, received her prayer.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
(A fragment of William Blake’s Jerusalem, written in 1804 and later set to music by Hubert Parry.)
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