Poetry

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There is a fortress that I run to tho I often shy away,
And underneath those wings my shelter yet I find it hard to stay,
I see the path I long to follow but my feet sink deep in blood,
And when I fall into the darkness there I drown beneath the mud,
But when winds do beat against my sails I see You standing there,
Amid those violent storms of suffering you hear my feeble prayer,
Who but my God my strength my King would dare to reach for me?
But He who cried It is Finished! by His death on Calvary.

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