In the tumultuous hours of the evening,
When shadows crawl forth from subconscious terrains
and fears awaken from hidden depths,

In that place between falling asleep
and the bright hope of sunrise,
that space in which uncertainty must be conquered by surrender,
where demons lurk like a roaring lions
ready to pounce,

That is precisely the moment in which the language of love
moves from being a surface sentiment
to a living vitality
breaking forth in an explosive dynamism
of song and romance
the hour when lovers are made
and saints discover the beloved,

When the mystic gives him or herself to the Lord
with complete abandonment
the hour of trial, but also the hour of victory,

We are not made for the soft exchanges
of midday pleasantries
as comforting as they may be,
and we are not made simply for ease,
Those who believe that lie
exchange the glory of heaven
for a stale commercial
that seemed so captivating on the first viewing
but with the repetition of time
becomes as lifeless as paint splattered on the wall,

No dear friend
we are made for the struggle of true happiness
the daily dying and rising,
the cycles in which we move from the abandonment of the Cross
to the ecstasy of the Resurrection;
From dark to light
and dark within light and light within dark,
Resting so as to give,
receiving so as to love,
loving so as to radiate

that inner energy of the Divine
which shines brightest
when the evening hours wrestle with shadows.