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My words are born of simple things not meant to carry weight;
A memory, an old cliché, emotions I can’t shake.
Yet, in the telling of my tales (this can’t be second guessed):
No matter what was written some reader will be blessed.
It seems there’s room for ego, so mighty is my pen,
Yet, inwardly, I understand God has done His work again.
He takes the words my pen lays down, and treats them as His own;
Like seeds, my words are planted in God’s Garden, freshly grown.
But the harvest comes much later at a place where I can’t be…
Some reader reads my story and God sets the reader free.
I could never comprehend it… God’s ways are far past mine,
But this one thing I understand: God cares about mankind.
If He can find a person who will write what e’er he’ll write
Then God will reach the reader who is struggling in a fight
And, though you’ll never know it, your words will strike a cord;
The reader will reap meaning from the garden of your words.
The writer isn’t mighty and neither is his pen…
The might is in the Spirit that guides us from within.
How else can anyone explain what happens when we read?
The simple words the writer writes is now the harvest readers need.
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