When I go walking on the street
My Guardian Angel walks behind.
I hear the rustling of his feet.
I feel the movement of his mind.
His heart is mine. I hear it beat.
My heart is his and he is kind.
I hear the rustling of his feet.
I feel the whirring of his wings.
Be still my soul, my body sings,
Be still, attentive and discreet.
The Love of God is very near,
That sees into the heart of things.
My heart is his. His heart is mine.
We pray for Grace to flow like wine,
The Grace that knows and understands,
Implicit in the touch of hands,
Where Principalities and Powers
Combine to bless our golden hours.
My heart is his. His heart is mine.
Two hammering hearts, four feet, six wings.
Our intercessions are divine.
My soul be still, be still and know.
Our stillness is the port of kings.
Mark as we go. Mark as we go.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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