The hero falls; her face is in the grass; her nose is pressed to the earth. The smell of soil, the breeze brings the scent of wild flowers that bloom right where their seed is sown. Natural, that this hero should be face down before the Lord. He is mighty and He has taught her the joys and contentments, the truths and the humilities. He has given her the pale reflections of His greatness. She calls upon Him and He has come, such is His faithfulness. She prostrates herself, so overwhelmed by the feeling of grace, that she was given something so monumental, so everlasting. The hero cannot speak, nor stand. The Lord is beautiful, terrifying, constant. Her ears are full of the voices around her; the chorus of praise resounds forever in the design of Creation. Trees move, rustled by air. Heart moved, reborn by grace.