Snuggle up to the threshold of heaven.
There make your bed and wait.
Abandon the herd and wait by the East fence.
Lightning will splash on green grass and the lake.
But caring eternal fingers will pluck up those who wait.
Eat sparsely where the grass is dry.
The luscious fields that draw are a ruse.
The beckoning bellows of joy are a lie.
Listen for the voice of your herdsman’s truth.
To the East fence, and stay nearby.
By His Grace