yarn

No eye has seen, for eyes without Your light are blind; no ear has heard, for a voice not from You is but an echo of nothingness; no dream has been fulfilled, for dreams that do not pass through You are but a wandering fantasy; no hope has ascended, for hope that does not seek refuge in You is a sick illusion; no sigh has risen, no passion has burned, but that they were ashes in the wind, except Your love. O God, that love which cannot be measured, nor told, nor extinguished, that passion which kills the lover from himself, and revives him through You, in You, to You.
In You is security when minds are troubled with thoughts that yield no certainty, and in You is peace when souls stray from their source, and in You is compassion, not like the compassion of created beings, but like a mercy described as encompassing all things, and in You is the purity that cleanses the heart from the turbidity of abundance, and in You is modesty, the modesty of those close to You when the light of Your majesty is revealed to them, and in You is purity, the purity of souls. Before the shadows defile it, and in you is the covering of the cloak, your cloak which your question does not reveal, your description does not reach, and your sight does not encompass.
O God… O You who, when I call upon You, You find me, and when I prostrate to You, You are absent from me, O Seas of blessings that have no shore, O Heavens of goodness whose height has no limits, O Courage of justice that judges every soul with Your scale, my heart is Yours… not for anything I hope for, nor for any bliss I am promised, but because You are You, and because love in You alone does not fade away.
No eye has seen you, nor has it seen, for eyes see only what you permit to be seen, and you permit only those whose secrets are purified from the defilement of specificity, and who have melted into you until they become one. And no ear has heard you except that which has grown accustomed to listening to your silence before your words, and trembles at every whisper of your call in the dead of night, so it heard you not in a voice, but rather In the midst of presence.
No dream has ever been fulfilled, for fulfillment is an illusion unless it is directed towards You. No hope has ever ascended, for every hope that does not throw itself into Your sea remains captive at the gates of the fleeting world.
And there is no sigh that has risen except that it is an echo of the longing of creation towards you, and there is no passion that has burned except that its fuel was a soul that was not quenched by you, so it burned with longing, to become ashes scattered in the wind of your name.
There is no love like your love, O secret of secrets, that love which cannot be written, spoken, or defined, that which consumes but does not kill, and makes the lover lose himself to establish him in you. The love of souls when they were created according to your nature, and the love of souls when they returned to you, and between them is a longing that cannot be silenced, a fire that cannot be extinguished, and a yearning that does not sleep.
In you is safety…safety from confusion when thought awakens and finds you its refuge, and safety from doubt when the soul flutters with your name and finds peace. And in you is peace…

Peace be upon him who forsook the clamor of meanings and sought refuge in the one meaning: You. And in You is tenderness… a tenderness unlike that of a mother, nor the mercy of a lover, but rather the boundless embrace of Oneness, and the unattainable smile of Eternity. And in You is purity…

A purity that makes the heart a mirror, seeing nothing but Your face. And in You is modesty…the modesty of one who saw Your light and was overc