I've walked in darkness. Blind and flailing, unaware of the salvation you would bring. I was not alone. There were whispers, whispers of the lost, the damned, and the dazed.

Some pleaded, crying out silently, their eyes glistening with desperation for something more. More than existence. Something bigger to fill their empty souls, something a burnt out cigarette can't warm and the sear of vodka down their throats can't make disappear. They are searching; wandering aimlessly amidst broken souls. Fear holds them back, like ropes of the unknown tethering the bony feet of baby birds to the ground. Their wings are outstretched, but they are unable to fly. I am one.

There are darker whispers yet. They scare me. Some are tortured, and speak of agony. Others are merely numb. They are burnt; blinded by the light that others search for so desperately, or remember with an aching fondness that they wish to recapture. I can't pretend to understand. I don't

I heard whispers of those whom have tasted the light but who faltered; strayed. The expanse of your love surrounded them and tightened, like arms of a mother around a dying child, but they slipped away. They whisper about points of light, constellations glowing in the night sky, memories of your purity; your goodness. You are the light. They intrigue me.

There some, very few, who don't bother to whisper. They sing. It's the angels, with voices like gold, inviting me to turn my intrigue into knowledge. The voices are clear, and loud, and it's so easy. An Angel put her hand in mine and cut my tethers so I had nothing to fear. I came to you willingly and you took my hand for her happily, warming my heart and clearing my eyes. I was newborn in your hand. Now, it doesn't matter where I walk, dark or light, I can see. I live by faith and not by sight.

I don't want to see the stars, I want to be them. With you I am.