To Sit in Silence

A Poem on Noise, Restlessness, and a Call to Stillness

May 28, 2026

And rising very early in the morning, while it was still dark, he departed and went out to a desolate place, and there he prayed.

— Mark 1:35

To Sit in Silence

Satan loves a saint who
cannot sit in silence.

A saint who squirms
as dusk spreads thick.
As chatter fades at last,
replaced by stillness.

Stillness,
save the sound of
jagged breaths,
which rise as silence
suffocates him—
no.

He must drown it.
Drown it out.
Drown it out before
real thoughts begin to rise.

Of life—and death.

Of sins his soul
still swims within.

Of fears and doubts.

Of God—the God he squirms beneath.

The God who counts each ragged breath.
Who keeps his heart from sudden death.
The God who knows each thought and care
that man drowns out in anxious fear.

Oh saint, how Satan loves to see
God’s people squirm and run and flee
from their good King.
Their loving King.

The only One who rules the world—
who holds the world—
with mighty hands.
Hands moved in love
when saints, in silence,
think of needs,
of wants and pains,
then bend a knee
and humbly plead.

So saint, do come.
In stillness, come.
To God, the God you know and love.
For in the silence,
you shall find Him—
ever faithful still.