Apologia for Missing Church Sundays Katelyn Roth
In thick, lazy mornings, in bedroom black where dogs snore softly on their sides and weigh down sheets with their warm bodies, I press my face to your hot arm and breathe in the way you smell only in your sleep; feeling your slow, untroubled breath, I worship: sings my soul, with shout of acclamation, how great thou art. I scarce can take it in, humble adoration. How great thou art. Sabbath Sundays, cooking or reading or washing my hair; you watching football, starting something in the crockpot; my body still sings the old hymns thoughtlessly, how great thou art without realizing, sings my soul without permission, great thou art.
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