The Hour of Noontide
“Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.”
He lay beneath the tree, where the vine clung, and the grapes hung low—golden and generous. The sun stood still above him, and the world, for a moment, was perfect. Not flawless, but whole. A warm breath whispered across his skin, and sleep slid over him, soft as silk. Not a sleep of exhaustion but of grace.
His soul sighed, stretching like a ship returning from long waters, kissing the shore with just a spider’s thread. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? To stay. To stay in the hush. To drink the golden drop and forget the road.
But something inside stirred.
A voice not loud but undeniable: Up. The world is not done with you yet.
He woke—not entirely, not at once—but enough. Enough to remember the mission. Enough to feel the fire. Enough to rise, even if the warmth of sleep still clung to his skin like the sun.
Some never wake. They curl deeper into dreams and call it peace. But there are others—those whose souls cannot slumber long. They taste the stillness, then return to the path.
He did not sleep too long.
And the sun was still at its height.
