Written in these eyes,
Is an ancient love,
Not known to many,
But only to two.

Sinful eyes,
Have yet thee to desire,
With this lustful love;
An endless, passing fire.

Though such hearts,
Were not fully bloomed,
Such hearts these were -
An endless abyss of ache.

Knowing such things,
Yet such are denied,
So did they love in lust,
Not knowing that such a love would die.

In each’s hands they laid,
Ghosts of each other,
All for young saudade,
As each could not find another.

What is true joy?
It's delight which flows without measure from the assurance
that through every circumstance and detail of my life
God is ever beckoning and drawing me into deeper intimacy
with Himself, ever whispering to my heart, “Come closer still.”