The Breath That Moves the Waters

Spirit of God
in the clear running water,
not just in the church bells
or the temple's chime,
but here—
where a brook hums against smooth stones,
and sunlight dances
without needing permission.

You move in silence,
in rhythm,
beneath the surface chatter
of leaves and rivers.
We do not always see you.
We rarely name you correctly.
But we feel you—
in the stillness before dawn,
in the gust that leans into our ribs,
in the flicker of bird wings
over reeds.

You are there
in the cold rush
of spring-fed streams—
pure, uncontained,
brushing the ankles of deer,
offering baptism to soil.

You do not need
altars built by hands.
The moss-covered stones
are enough.
The drifting pollen,
the echo of herons,
the rhythm of rainfall—
all these are hymns in your name.


Blowing to greatness
the trees on the hill—
O Breath, O Wind,
you do not just pass.
You awaken.
You do not just stir the air;
you summon it to dance.

The trees,
arms lifted,
do not resist your coming.
They bend and praise,
not in speech
but in movement,
in still-rooted surrender.

Their greatness is not height alone.
It is age and ache.
It is the quiet way they split rock
with patience.
It is how they open themselves
to light,
to cold,
to you—
always you.

They rise
because you breathe into them.


The Spirit moves.
Not like a soldier marching
or a prophet shouting
from dusty pulpits.
No.
The Spirit moves
like the hush of snowfall
on a sleeping lake,
like the exhale of wild horses
before they charge.

The Spirit is wind,
and water,
and flicker.
The Spirit is not held,
not stored,
but always becoming.

You go where you will,
and what you touch,
you lift.


There is a boy—
feet in the stream,
eyes wide,
not knowing that what he feels
has a name older than language.

There is an old woman—
hands in the soil,
humming low
as if to remind the worms
they are loved.

There is a bird—
head tilted in the wind,
feathers rising like prayers
it never meant to say aloud.

They are all touched
by the same breath.
They are all made holy
without trying.


The world does not know
how close you are.

It looks for miracles
in burning bushes,
forgetting
you often arrive
as morning mist
on garden stones.

They think greatness
means being seen—
loud, large, adorned.
But the trees on the hill
are your chosen choir,
and they never speak.

Still,
they rise.

Still,
they grow rings
through drought and frost
and wait
for the next gust.


Clear running water—
how long it has flowed
without applause.
But there it is,
quenching thirst,
carving valleys,
reflecting moonlight
with no desire to keep it.

You, Spirit,
are in this clarity—
this endless surrender
to motion.

You are in the river
that does not ask to be named.
You are in the way it sings
without needing a listener.

You are in the rush
that tells us,
go on.
Be carved.
Be carried.
Be changed.


You speak
in ripples and roots.
You wait in the wind’s curve
over the long grass.
You do not demand belief,
only attention.

When we listen,
we are stilled.
When we stop,
you fill us.

And maybe that is greatness:
not power,
not dominance—
but willingness
to be filled
and to overflow
into whatever needs touching.


So let the Spirit
ride the river’s current.
Let it blow through the trees
until their leaves shimmer
with stories of surrender.

Let it enter
the ones who crouch
at the edge of the world
with no map but longing.

Let it cradle the tired
who do not remember
what peace feels like.

Let it wake the cruel
who forgot they were once
soft.


Spirit of God—
you do not stay in stained glass.
You do not live in dogma.

You live in motion.
You dwell
wherever something is becoming.

A sapling in rain.
A hawk in descent.
A grandmother's lullaby
woven with the breath
of three generations.


We are all rivers.
We are all trees.
We are all soil
waiting for your rainfall.

And you—
you are the breath
before the word,
the song beneath silence,
the one who reminds us
that we, too,
can grow toward light
even after fire.


So come again,
Spirit.
Blow to greatness
the forgotten.
Wash clear
the wounded.
Move
as only you move.

Make of us
a living hymn
in wind and water—
a quiet greatness
rooted deep,
and always,
always
reaching upward.

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