At His Feast
Pestilence rushes in like a river,
My heart beats faint,
My eyes run dry,
My frail body trembles,
Yet still, I refuse to die.
When my sun sinks beyond the hills,
I shall see Him,
And all will be well.
At His feast,
My hunger will he satisfy,
My tears will he wipe,
My wounds will he bind.
The past—just a shadow forgotten,
A new dawn will rise.
But for now,
I embrace my pain with a smile.
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