Where Wonder Went

 The room is bright, the screens aglow,

Yet not a window lets light flow.
No breeze, no sky, no holy hush.
Just hums of wires and digital rush.

We dwell in rooms that hold no door,
No outward gaze, no forest floor.
We’ve traded fields and star-filled nights
For mirrors, metrics, neon lights.

The soul once danced in sacred air,
Beneath the moon’s reflective stare.
It fed on beauty, breathed in psalms,
And slept beneath the heavens’ palms.

But now we scroll, consume, repeat,
With tethered minds and restless feet.
We see the stars but do not pray.
We’ve mapped the night and lost the Way.

We look, but do not truly see.
We grasp, but miss the mystery.
We chase the facts, ignore the flame,
And wonder flickers without name.

For wonder is not weak or blind,
It’s not the foe of heart or mind.
It sings before the answers start.
A sacred hush within the heart.

It slows us down and draws us near,
It whispers what we used to hear.
A breath, a pause, a break in speech.
Where God Himself begins to teach.

But wonder scares a hurried race,
Who build and buy, then guard their place.
So lights stay on, and questions hide,
And silence waits, but we're inside.

Yet still the soul, it bears the trace
Of Eden’s wind, of walking grace.
It knows the voice that once was heard
Before the fall, before the Word.

Christ did not come to simply teach,
To answer every human speech.
He came to show, to touch, to heal,
To make the unseen true and real.

He spoke in lilies, dust, and bread,
In shepherds’ fields and rising dead.
He turned our gaze beyond the known.
The Window through which light is shown.

In Him was life, and light was born,
The dawn that breaks the endless mourn.
The lamp that flames in shadow’s hold.
The true light ancient prophets told.

So what now, soul, so numb, so still?
Come—step beyond the windowsill.
Go where the earth still sings the psalms,
And let the hush restore your palms.

Look up. Breathe deep. Let silence stay.
Let mystery not fade away.
For this is not a lifeless room.
The world’s a temple, not a tomb.

And you were made to lift your eyes,
To watch the storm, to seek the skies.
To let stained glass and sunbeams blend —
And find your Wonder in the end.

Thanks for reading,

—Samuel Buhler