The Epistles

The waves tossed and swayed

The same rhythm as the hope of the people.

The clouds painted a menacing picture

Funny enough, looked like a spiral,

Seemed as though it was taunting them,

Reminding them of the cycles of sin they keep overcoming.

And yet facing again,

The hue from the setting sun?

Cast a golden glistening glow to their ashen faces.

Their hopes were as faint as the shore,

There was nothing else to hold on to.

They called out to their last resort,

The one who owned it all.

He heard them.

And whispered in a voice contrasting the storm

A voice, so gentle yet powerful.

It commanded:

‘Peace, be still’