Dear Reader,

I have seen how great God is in grief.

I have seen Him provide in ways I never thought possible.

I have seen His tender care rest over those near and dear to me.

From that seeing, this poem was born.It did not come from a life untouched by sorrow, but from the quiet places where He met us still—where He held what we could not hold, and gave what we did not know how to ask for. These lines are only a small offering of thanks: that even ordinary hours, even aching hours, may become a hymn of praise.

May they lead you not to the poem, but to Him.— The Poet

Psalm 34:1
I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth.

Habakkuk 3:17–18
Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will joy in the God of my salvation.

2 Corinthians 1:3–4
Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.

Psalm 147:3
He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.

May every part of us become a song—
the work, the waiting, the word we speak,
the quiet rooms, the crowded street,
the strength we give, the rest we keep.

Not only lifted voices in the night,
but how we walk and how we stay,
how we receive what comes our way,
how we endure, how we obey.

Let joy be music, let sorrow be too,
let ordinary hours rise and ring.
May all we are, in everything,
be hymn and offering unto You.