Is it hidden in cathedral walls,
where light bends through stained glass prayers,
or in the hush of whispered psalms,
echoing off marble bones of saints?

Is it folded in the hands of the poor,
wrinkled palms lifted in silent need,
or in the mother’s weary touch,
brushing sleep across her child’s brow?

Does it linger in the river’s hush,
where stones are shaped by quiet years,
or in the embered dawn that wakes
a world too busy to bow?

Is it carved in the scars we bear,
grace etching mercy into our flesh,
or in the soft surrender of one who loves,
though love has cost them all?

Holiness is not far, not lost—
not locked behind iron gates.
It moves in the unnoticed, the small, the stranger,
the broken made whole by unseen hands.

It is here, waiting—
in the stillness, in the striving,
in the breath between sorrow and hope.
Our hope.

“Be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.”
Leviticus 19:2