Combing

I comb thy noblesse, in that some lost hurt might bring thee sorrow, choosing some avert - a random's borrow to then so divert, God's asking of our faith, to so invert our courage, from His marrow of exert. I comb the gray to know my own alert, in functioning abuse from its framework. Would guide me forward then to not berserk my soundness, in thy Holy needs' concert. I comb exactness, from its true cost's blurt, an over action of confining skirt, that harbors definition by insert. I comb resourcefulness from feelings curt, to truth's contraction, without haste's overt. That Godly sanctioned glory not desert, of calling's minded motion, nor revert - I comb my love for thee, that tangled worth, that faith and understanding give new birth!