When
When you are one of three hundred
Meditating in silence on Sundays
In bright Quaker Halls all around Ireland
And the other seven million
Are happy elsewhere
At times you question your purpose
And doubt your own sanity
For while numbers should never be taken
As Gospel but still you will wonder
Who’s right and who’s wrong.
Is this lonely path for the few and
Not the many? For surely our God
Has called everybody?
But maybe our God is fragmented
With different colors like a prism
Maybe all paths come together
And arrive at a point we call home.
Perhaps it’s not really important
That we all sit down at an hour
In one room in a holy tower
God will find us wherever we are
Whether looking below or staring at stars.
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