D'vine Comedy
Vines it were stole Adam’s joys;
thorns and thistles figured large.
Now, machines and even toys
fail to start, won’t hold a charge.
Oft harangued by so much ache,
pleasure’s fleeting, progress stalls.
Scarce we fix, another breaks;
endless toil stems from the fall.
Come thou, Father, make all right;
help us in this life we plea.
Burdens easy, yokes are light
when we find our rest in Thee.
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment