[I wrote this a while ago, so no one get any ideas as to “certain interpretations”]
Is a hidden love a love at all?
For the sake or right, to fake not wrong,
are feelings feeling present pain
not aright, though actions wane?
For the sake of the past
shall the future lie in want-
lie in wait, for the past to become thus?
That which aching hearts cry
and lie and die to, for the sake of a
grace yet to be revealed
though seen everyday:
in a glance, a look, a lasting lingering
lasting just too long. Or does it?
A grace found within a face whose frame
whose heart grows only deeper still as
his deep, and His deep, cry out for hers.