You Are The Bows From Which Your

Spring Is Beautiful Everywhere, But It Is More Than Beautiful In Lebanon. Spring Is The Spirit Of An Unknown God Speeding Through The World, Which, As It Reaches Lebanon, Pauses, Because Now It Is As At Home With The Souls Of The Prophets And Kings Hovering Over The Land, Chanting With The Brooks Of Judea, The Eternal Psalms Of Solomon, Renewing With The Cedars Of Lebanon Memories Of An Ancient Glory.

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked. And The Same Well From Which Your Laughter Rises Was Oftentimes Filled With Your Tears. And How Else Can It Be? The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain. Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter's Oven? And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit, The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Love Is Trembling Happiness.

Prayer Is The Song Of The Heart. It Reaches The Ear Of God Even If It Is Mingled With The Cry And The Tumult Of A Thousand Men.

These Things He Said In Words. But Much In His Heart Remained Unsaid. For He Himself Could Not Speak His Deeper Secret.