Poetry

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You pierce the leader of His gang,
With His own arrows and His sword;
Then from a tree you left Him hang,
Since you refuse to call Him Lord.

His troops like a violent storm,
They are scattering you and me;
They are arrogant and perform,
A search but are too blind to see.

You march with your horse to the shore,
Where the mighty waters did flow;
And secretly ate food of the poor,
At a time when they did not know.

But there was trembling within me,
Another voice that I have heard;
Quivering lips that were not free,
As the Lord was speaking His Word.

A rotten feeling was inside,
It had entered me where I stood;
Ripping for tearing up my pride,
Chopping up like a piece of wood.

I wait for the day of trouble,
Hope it quickly passes away;
Because it has made me stumble,
Since I have been going astray.

Even if the fig tree blooms not,
Or the olive tree growth fails;
I will not blame what is at fault,
The hired hands have empty pails.

Even if the pen have no sheep,
The cows no longer in their stalls;
I will still get a good night sleep,
As the sun drops and the night falls.

I will be happy with the Lord,
As I truly find joy in God;
No longer will He be ignored,
Because I will honor and laud.

The Lord Almighty is my strength,
He makes my feet like of a deer;
To persevere at any length,
For my confession was sincere.

C Copyright © 2016 Richard Newton Sherrer

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