What glorious wonders we’ve yet to behold?
Beautiful miracles yet to unfold?
Powerful chronicles of ours to be told?
Like when the sun, moon and stars arose from your prose,
Like storybook tales of our ancestors of old,
When sin stole their innocence, their bareness exposed
Birthing babies or constructing an ark while age old,
Having been into years of slavery sold,
who then marched through the salty waves back which you rolled,
Forced into lion’s dens, raging fires, yet bold
with a faith and devotion more precious than gold,
Angels announcing of the One prophets foretold,
Or a gaze into Heaven, to death being stoned—
We must now gather strayed sheep to the fold,
Before the eternal gates of Heaven are closed,
Because it’s our life and breath Yours only to hold,
Our stories, our destinies still written to show,
of your goodness, your kindness, your faithfulness—Oh,
how you search to and fro,
for full devotion of those
whom you know
earth will reveal these wonders aglow.
The Passionate Poet 