Your stillest hour is in a ribbon wrapped,
A gift from Abba, please to recall that.
Who is the still, small voice amid the storm?
Whence come the softest words that have such power,
That mountains move at one whispered command,
And centuries of ill turn round at will?
The stillest hour is now, let it enfold
The agonies, the dead ends and the blocks.
Immobile, you are set to move again.
Struck dumb by living, you will live some more.
Let Abba’s guidance be your resting place.
You are not dead, just silent and enclosed.
Now rise and feel a rising, subtle power.
And move on, lifted by the stillest hour."
