Numen

To make God real, you need no altar made of stone, the wisdom from within makes you think and stand alone.

The ancients called it Numen — the disciple learns to behold, not from the teacher's shouting, but the shimmer on the threshold.

A spirit not of person, but of presence — clear and true, that lives inside a thing and makes it more than you once knew.

The reality of spirit, in generous conclusion, divides what's real and lasting from tempting illusion.

The great mystery is hidden secret in the grain, a priesthood without the vain.

It challenges in layers, it guards the truth, to keep the universe forever in its youth.

Philosophers point upward to the Absolute on high, but spirit of Numen declares that truth lives in your walking boot, nearby.

The divine is not abstract, it is terribly near, it speaks in questions, to the conscious ear.

For what is God if too large to fit in small delusion, what worth is heaven, if not found in true solution?

Modesty is the veil of inner durability, the ancient soul and quiet ability.

The living force, the secret that wise teachers forget to say, the holy is not high but here in play.

The ageless teacher speaks through what experience seeks, and gives you just the knowing that your soul now seeks.

Everyone must pay a toll, not with a solemn hymn, just notice and be not so grim.

The answer lives in grateful and serene, where listening itself becomes what lessons mean.

Respect it, friend, for everything that seems mundane, contains a nodding spirit, calling your true name.

All living love is spirit, all that dies is matters art, goodness is inherent, it lives within the heart.