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We convince ourselves we have all the answers,
And then you remind us we don’t,
Control wrapped around our white knuckles,
As we tug an imaginary rope.
Help us relax our grip,

Help us to find your face in the dark formless places,
When we sit in the dark, on the hill of a question mark,
Eyes burning, head hurting, life blurring,
At the end of our rope we feel like we’re falling,
But then we’re found,
In You.

 

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