Fada Apex

WHEN ONE PRIEST SPEAKS AND ANOTHER DISCERNS

The church holds breath; the stones all seem to hear,
Old echoes ache with prayers from year to year.
One priest breaks silence, burdened, brave, and worn,
His words like bells that toll a faith reborn.

The other listens, learned in loss and light,
His silence sharpens truth, refines the night.
He hears beneath the speech, beyond the sound,
Where restless hearts and hidden hopes are found.

“Brother,” he says; and bread is torn by pain,
Shared stories spill like sacramental rain.
Of vows grown thin, of zeal that learned to bleed,
Of hands that bless while secretly in need.

The listener weighs the wind that drives each word,
Recalls the saints who suffered, stood, and stirred.
He tests the tale with tears and tempered time,
Where truth grows tough and grace begins to climb.

Then counsel comes; not loud, but lit with flame,
Not quick escape, nor comfort dressed as claim:
“Stay with the Cross; let costly love be true.
The wound that called you still is calling you.”

They part; yet something holy has occurred:
When one priest speaks and one soul has discerned,
The Church stands firm though dark the days may be:
For faith survives by faithful listening, free.

THE QUIET THEOLOGY OF FOLDED HANDS

Before sermons shaped the mind and taught,
Before doctrines battled, before arguments fought,
Hands learned to bow where shadows fall,
In the hush of history, where silence calls.
Fear roared loud, but hope still gleamed,
God whispered first, and the world just dreamed.

Folded hands hold what time forgets,
Eden’s breath, the Red Sea’s depths.
The Cross awaited in shadowed night,
Before resurrection revealed its light.
Salvation wears delay as a quiet guise,
And waiting builds the soul that flies.

“Why do you not rise?” the world demands,
Folded hands answer with quiet hands:
“Not every battle is won in sound,
Not every triumph shakes the ground.
Truth ripens slow, beyond the glare,
And bends the world when it meets the air.”

Here kneels theology, without applause,
No footnotes praise, no public cause.
Breath meets mercy, hands teach this plan:
God’s a mystery, not made by man.
Surrender lifts the soul above,
Pride is humbled by patient love.

Generations tremble within their fold,
Grandmothers’ tears, martyrs bold.
Midnight prayers forgotten by day,
Yet folded hands will not decay.
They ache, they wait, they bear the fight,
And faith learns to endure the night.

When the world grows heavy, hope seems slight,
Folded hands turn darkness into light.
They do not flee, they quietly stand,
Transforming earth with unseen hand.
When all else falls, they remain and teach:
Hope speaks loudest without a speech.