When Faith Is Gentle

 When faith is not a sharpened blade,

Nor shouted creed in fear’s charade,
But quiet hands that lift the low,
Then healing blooms where spirits go.

When scripture breathes, not beats or binds,
And mercy moves through open minds,
Then faith becomes a whispered balm,
A sheltering hush, a sacred calm.

Not walls, but doors it dares to make,
A place where hearts can rest, not break.
Where prayer is less about control,
And more the stitching of the soul.

It does not promise cure or end,
But walks beside you, like a friend.
It weeps with you, it holds your hand,
It helps you rise, not just to stand.

When done with love, not rule or pride,
Faith meets the ache we hold inside.
And whether God is named or near,
What matters most is who draws near.

So let your church be light and air,
A place where broken hearts repair.
For true religion heals in part,
By simply honoring the heart.