Once More

Once more, I come to the door

I was certain You would open.

Yet even as it stays shut,

I sense Your goodness in the quiet

and find Your stillness

holding more mercy than I knew.

Not absence, only sovereignty.

You are not withholding care;

You are shaping trust.

Your “no” is not neglect,

but mercy -

redirecting my hope

toward what cannot be taken.

You refine what clings within me,

removing what would harden,

so I may bear lasting fruit.

Even in quiet, You are at work -

drawing me to trust, to surrender, to wait.

I lay my desires before You,

not because I understand,

but because I believe

You are wise and unchanging.

You withhold what would harm,

and give what sanctifies.

You teach me that love

is not found in fulfilled requests,

but in communion,

in being conformed

to the likeness of Christ.

This waiting becomes worship,

this ache an altar

where my self-will burns away.

And in the quiet that remains,

I find You sufficient.

If the door never opens,

I trust You are still good.

You are not defined by what You give,

but by who You are -

faithful in every “no,”

merciful in every silence.

Abba, Father,

You remain my portion and my praise.