High Time: A time that is almost too late
It came. It went. Apparently. I slept. Just South the waters rose. One’s carried through. Slight breeze. Dead branch clings on. Handshake stays put. But tears…they fall. Yesterday’s news, a loss. Yet gratitude must dry one’s face. Face it. Head on, we fold our hands, and scrape our knees. Let’s please the Lord above, as He renews. In hands of Christ, we’re lost or NOT. He saves. The friendship tree still hangs for all to see. It’s scarred by weighty nails, and crimson stained. It came. It went. Before we’re born, he bore our sins. Christ carried on to death, and rose again. Our gain. Dayspring on high, beckons. Children, he calls. You choose. High Time. Don’t lose.
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.