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)