The news of our knowing, scattered, a scent unbound,
She embraced me, as fragrance, on hallowed ground.
How can I claim she's departed, she's gone from sight?
The truth, a sharp blade, cuts shame through the light.
May your heart's dwelling flourish, a place of grace,
No judgment night of solitude touch your face.
Wherever she wandered, back to me she'd return,
This truth endears, though her heart may burn.
When her hand, so gentle, touched my fevered brow,
Christ's own healing, in my soul, I know now.
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