Lowered into a grave of fickle flesh.

Royal robes stripped, I submit to the battering

will of I AM. His love pulls starved faith

onto nourishing knee and tucks truth

into my stories–stirring soul to adventure life.

My life willingly pick-pocked by man’s understanding;

As Satan’s purse plumps with the despairing clink of silver.

 

In the garden, I grafted man to me.

Planting saints sinners in the fertile

The soil of my tilled blood.

Rooting righteous oaks of transformed lives

by streams of fulfillment.

Displaying my glory.

Building a testament with the

Tap, tap, tap,

Of the nails into my hands.

 

Poetry posts at 7pm  every Thursday (sorry, this one is a bit late)

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