And indeed everybody who does wrong hates the light,
And avoids it for fear his actions should be exposed.
This Easter April sun out of deep velvet sky is terrifyingly, searchingly bright.
I can barely read or write outside. It searches me, only on shade is my soul reposed.
Does desired retreat from light expose, is inner sight denied, a soul in distress.
But we seek it with all our hearts.
Usually it lives behind a grey unforgiving English sky, our island’s mistress.
Its fitful rays forgotten in busy day, through clouds of care it barely darts.
But can I not remember, what did he say. I forget it to my cost.
God so loved the world that He gave his only son.
So that everyone who believes may not be lost.
I suppose all I can do is say in fitful hope. Thy will be done.
So easy to utter in brief quiet meditation.
So difficult to do in life’s busy commandeering commotion.