To the Waters, in Faith

He promises to care to the extreme, If I'd drink from His never-drying stream— That I need no coin to purchase or strive, For He said I was made to glow and thrive. As time slithers, wants litter front and rear, And hope keeps fading with each passing year. He says I need not labour hard for bread, Yet my field yields little—my soul starved, unfed. But how can my feet reach that stream to drink, When they are feeble, my soul on the brink? Who feeds my lack when I've no means to pay? Who'll ease my toil as my faith drifts astray? Even the mountains have no mouth to sing— From whence, then, comes the comfort their songs bring? The hands of the trees are withered and still; Their claps haven’t silenced the whispering hill. How can I purge this doubt from my belief, When I've sought the Lord in bloom and in grief? I've called His name, but silence greets my cry— His mercy seems to flee the more I try. Are His thoughts too divine to match with mine, And His ways beyond what I can define? Or must I take long waiting as my fate, Though even my bones have no strength to wait? Yet nothing He pledges fails to come true— On this firm ground, my hope is born anew. Though frailty lingers and my strength is slight, Grace rushes in—my dawn replaces night.