NeuroDivine

1
At thresholds in the deep of night
I sit and hold his hand;
While Slemish breathes its ancient calm
Across this shadowed land.

2
The badger moves through briar and fern,
The owl keeps silent guard;
And Christ walks softly through the gloom
Where hearts are bruised and scarred.

3
From Portrush where his boyhood played
By White Rocks, wind, and foam,
The Skerries shine like lantern‑stones
To guide his spirit home.

4
The hawthorn glows with Brigid’s fire,
The curlew lifts her cry;
And angels tread the liminal paths
Where earth meets holy sky.

5
O High King, take my father’s hand
And lead him through the veil;
Let every breath become a step
Where light shall never fail.

6
And I, still keeping vigil here,
Let love be all I give;
Till he, who taught my heart to trust,
Awakes in You to live.

Reflection

There are moments in life when the world grows very quiet.

A hospital room in the deep of night. The soft rhythm of breathing. The weight of a loved one’s hand resting in our own. The dim light beyond the curtains while hours drift slowly onward. In such moments, we find ourselves standing at what the Celtic tradition often called a thin place—a threshold where earth and eternity seem to draw close together.

Keeping Vigil at the Veil was written from within such a moment.

It is a hymn born from sitting beside my father’s bed as he lies near the edge of the great crossing. Yet the hymn does not try to force certainty upon mystery. Instead, it simply remains present within it. It watches. It prays. It listens.

The landscape itself becomes part of the vigil.

Slemish breathes its ancient calm across the darkness. The badger moves quietly through briar and fern. The owl keeps silent guard. Far beyond the room, Portrush and the Skerries still shine beneath the night sky like lantern-stones guiding a traveller home.

Creation does not turn away from sorrow. It keeps watch beside us.

This is deeply woven into the older spiritual imagination of Ireland and the Celtic world. Mountains, rivers, birds, wind, and sea were never merely scenery; they were companions in prayer, witnesses to grace, signs that Christ still walked gently through the world He made.

And perhaps that is the heart of this hymn:

Not every holy moment arrives with triumph or clarity. Sometimes Christ comes quietly—through the silence of a bedside vigil, through the touch of a hand, through the weary endurance of those who stay.

The image of the “veil” matters deeply here. In Christian hope, death is not understood as abandonment, but as passage. The veil is thin, though still mysterious. Love cannot fully follow where another must go, but it can accompany them to the threshold.

And sometimes, that accompaniment becomes its own sacred calling.

There are seasons when love can do nothing except remain present. No fixing. No solving. No eloquent words. Only faithfulness.

Yet perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps, at the veil between worlds, love itself becomes prayer.

Written at my father’s bedside as I sit in vigil, 2026-05-22. Copyright Michael McFarland Campbell.