Poetry

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Sometimes i tread on eggshell soil,while hoping for some new found coin,it may well show its face where i did toil,unlike the kettle i need to boil,
to make a cup of my favourite brew,there's always something old or new,a special word of course is healed,nothing is of course from GOD,concealed;
some medecines we know are good,and help us when our body ails,our spirit needs GOD'S VERY OWN grace
to make my sinfulness disperse,into that place where no body is blessed,illgotten gainsforever stained,worse of course is a soul that's stained,
above the ground we can be found,no better sound than that word called healed,for the soul that's cured is best in GOD,revealed;from a dark filled night into a new days light GOD'S GRACE is there
to repent so right,when a heart's contrite.
Joe.

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