Ps.40 Only the evening
I thought the sun had set. Familiar orange thoughts rested on horizon silhouette. I thought the day was done, And night had won, As darkness leant against the wall of sky And as together we waited there to die. The blanket tore to a million drops of rain, Each one throwing itself at my resolve to stand, again and again. Each bullet deliberately thickening mud to sink me further still. The cruel, corrosive erosion of my shattered will. But the mire was only … neck deep, I felt the rock find me, beneath my feet. Rain threw itself harder still to drown me, But instead it wore away the filth and found me. The attack continued; brutal, and made its mark, And still more it came, till it broke itself to a smile of rainbow arc. O, sweet promise. Promise that always comes. That my heart always beats to see, Sweet sound as the song of each closing day; remembers to swoop and to soar and to be. The night will come, but this is just the evening; so we dance, we remember, we sing; As we revel in day-life-wonders of our ever Saviour-king.
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