More things are wrought by prayer than this world of dreams I believe ; wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me day and night. For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain, if, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend!
In such a world, your Highness, so thorny, and where none finds happiness unblighted; or, if found, without some thirsty sorrow at its side; cease not to remind me who i am. I am not my age, nor the size of clothes i wear. I am not my weight, light or the colour of my hair. I am not my name, or the dimples in my cheeks. Am I?
It seems the part of wisdom, (and no sin against the law of love) to measure lots with less distinguish’d than myself, that thus I may with patience bear my moderate ills, and sympathise with others suffering more. Please remind me, children we all are- of one great father, in whatever clime. And that nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life- all tongues, all colours; and neither after death shall we be sorted into languages. Perhaps, I might doubt myself, (a habit I am trying to get rid of) plundering to pathetic penury; my stock of hopes and dreams. When such moments occur, let me know that I am all the books I read, and all the words I speak. That I am my croaky morning voice, and the smile I try to hide. I am the sweetness in my laughter and every tear I have cried. I am the songs I sing so loudly when I am all alone. I am all the places I have been to and the one i call home. I am the photos I treasure so much, and the future I dream of. Cease not, your Highness, to remind me that I made of so much beauty that I forgot when I decided that I was defined by the things i’m not.
Children, we all are.
Of one great father, He whom we live and move
He, the indifferent Judge of all, regards
Nations, and hues, and dialects alike.