Prophecy

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From the tips of his fingers,
With hands nailed down;
To his head with thorns made they a crown,
He Loves me.

To his dying breath he vowed to them,
That this thing called Death;
Would not keep him pinned,
Because he Loves me.

Because he loves me,
There is no doubt;
That he will return,
And carry me out.

Out of a world,
so full of hatred and strife;
Out of this darkness,
And into his light,

Meantime he's given me a way to cope,
With trust;
With love,
and with hope.

Yes soon he will come,
To carry me home;
To a Heavenly place,
I can call my own,
Because he loves me.


By;
Cindy Hutchison

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