Poet Evangel

It's a mirror It's a ladder It's a weapon for Mansoul It's a bombast From the Christ past Crying now to be made whole. It's a comfort For the wounded And a hospice for their hurt It's a warning To the haughty That their Father came from dirt. It's another Look at Calvary And another, yet again It's a resume On Jesus Working still today for men. It's a fairground For the senses But it must not leave the trail Of the journey Ever upward By the folk who pass Death's Vale. It's an invite To the wayward And a shelter for their night It's adoption To a family Resting washed and safe and right. It's an offering From the heart's purse With but two small mites in hand. It's a blessing To the writers That they hardly understand.