Allan W. Traphagan
A Faithful Search
Silence at last, beneath foggy clouds of white,
Sweet silence flowing like the fingers of mist,
Somehow melodic with a haunting twist,
a refrain in silver Moonlight.
Where at last upon an island of Lilies waxen,
Standing there with open arms of Alabaster,
Dispersing the foggy mist's of impending disaster,
Are you, my Lord, my Jesus, my Master.