The Wounded Bird
It was from the roadside,
All crushed with battered wing,
That they retrieved that injured bird
Which could no longer sing.
All limp without a spark of life
No brightness in her eye,
The very life light drained away
They feared that she would die.
That pretty bird had not a prayer
Was all that could be said,
By those who saw her frail form,
She surely must be dead.
But soft within her battered chest
The wounded heart still fluttered
And from the souls of those who saw
A mercy prayer was uttered.
The uttering grew, it gathered strength
It echoed up to heaven
And God who knows and sees all things
Smiled on this life He’d given.
It seemed some task lay incomplete
A song remained unsung,
And deep within the spirit moved;
The healing had begun.
All of those who ministered
Who carefully made repairs,
The heart-struck congregation
Who offered up their prayers,
Were astonished at the blessing
As life returned once more,
Determined to praise God anew
More fervent than before.
For it was God preserved her
That she might sing again,
To lift her voice in chorus
To echo the amen.
No other explanation
Can possibly be made
Now we see His purpose in
The life for which we prayed.
Copyright © Neil Mcleod | Year Posted 2017
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