by Art Anker
Dear God, I prayed, tell me what
I need to know.
My healing seems so slow—so slow. Is there some old hidden fault
That, blinded, I refuse to see— or perhaps some dim dark
past, that won’t let go?
—and then an answer came just this way: —
“My son, don’t you know — You are perfect, and always have been.
Just rest in that,
There is no past.”