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Poem

The folds have heard his gentle voice,
In which I was yet to hear.
They say it is still and small;
A sound to comfort the tiers.
Had I been left forsaken,
Built along my grievances?
The shadow of a lost man,
Trapped in my performances.
A golden cloak to harbor the truth
Of the soul that lies in shame.
Alas, his divining blade cuts true;
Transcending the confines of my claims.
He knows the nature of my depth,
And a simple voice I shall not heed.
My endearment for music of the soul
Is the swiftest route to capture me.
I sit amongst the gentiles,
And the choir intonates.
His sword has pierced my innermost,
And my heart begins to wake.
My walls began to crumble and fall;
A consequence of gospel’s forte.
Tears of reprieve afforded to me,
By grace’s doctrine they exhort.
The many years wasted by me,
I did not mind from within.
At last I’ve heard his holiest spirit,
And felt his benediction.

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