My Lord, Far-Reaching,
Light-Bringing, He-of-the-Bow,
For You, Divine, most perfect,
who heard my prayers for healing
and found me, pliant and frightened,
worthy of your gentle hand,
I thank you.
For you, Phoebus, who found me
groping towards the edge of light,
blinded by the shift,
trembling from the sounds of what
has been and always been
bouncing violently against my ears,
like the ocean in a shell,
You who took my hand
who told me not to fear
who loved me even with my determination
to be so very small and frail
You who taught me to not fear the light,
who breathed grace into madness
and urged me to not only heal
but to thrive despite the terror
of holy wholeness,
tending to me like a flower
reaching hungry for the sun.
You who believed in me when I was
incapable of believing in myself.
You who cast out the shadows.
You, ever unrelenting in this journey,
the one who relishes in the mortal path to perfection
as much as I.
Honey-kissed, Laurel-crowned,
My Lord, I honor, love, and thank you.
— Camilla
Treasury of Apollon 