Sunday, 12 April 2020

Motes in Hand


























Beset by foes we can not see.
A mote of plague and enmity.
A terror in the fears of man.
No height can shake me from his hand.

Shown the discord of the news.
Of tilted pitch and party views.
Info, swing and schemes of man.
No depth is vast to stop his hand

A hand that gives and takes away.
One steady as the rise of day.
One violent as the darkest night.
One filled with what we would call right.

No wrong in beast and body formed,
or poison used and virus born.
Can challenge what he does have planned.
Can take what's firmly in his hand.

He makes the thunder and the rain.
The muscles grown from weeks of pain.
The measure of our true resolve.
The cause and capture of our love.

A God less present in the end,
was not a god to start my friend.
A Lord in trails will be true,
when golden days find ways to you.

We praise him in our homes alone.
We praise him on his holy throne.
We praise him from our stricken land.
We praise the risen Son of Man.



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