Where He Dwells

There is a dwelling no map can hold,

no pilgrim's foot can claim,

Not in the temple's weathered stone, or in a whispered name.

For years one sought it high and low, in mountain, book, and prayer.

In incense smoke that climbs and thins, in still and solemn air.

One thinks it lives beyond the world, behind some hidden door.

That one must fast and leave the self to merit something more.

And then one day not being in devout, not thinking wise or being pure.

Love touched the heart as morning touches day for sure.

She did not speak of sacred things, she laughed about the rain, and in that ordinary laugh,  one felt the touch that changed the mind again.

For suddenly the room was holy, not changed, but as precious seen. To make sense in the ordinary solely to advance in keen. 

To understand then where He dwells, not far or mighty high and not apart. He dwells in the moment when love touched the human heart.

He does not wait in heaven's height for us to climb alone. He waits in every gentle touch that makes the world a home.

And when love touches, truly touches, without a reason why, the dwelling place reveals itself, in the here and now to the open sky. 

The dwelling is the recognition to honour the behold. That this kingship exists to endure, eternal love that can't get old.