Poetry

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The crown of pride to the drunkards,
The fading flower of beauty;
The frigid cold of the blizzards,
No more spiritual dignity.

The people overcome with wine,
But the Lord is mighty and strong;
A destroying storm Divine,
Casts down on those who have done wrong.

The drunkards that have a proud crown,
Are being trodden underfoot;
Strong drink causes them to fall down,
They forgot where their minds were put.

The fading flower of beauty,
Like the first-ripe fig of summer;
On the head of the rich valley,
Now goes into a deep slumber.

For on that day the Lord of Host,
Is wearing that crown of glory;
Diadem of beauty to boast,
Save those who say they are sorry.

The residue of His people,
Will see the Spirit of justice;
Sits in judgment in His temple,
Doing an immoral practice.

Copyright ©2022 Richard Newton Sherrer

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