F A I T H
Autumn`s moon awaning,
sinks slowly to the sea.
Tiring, weary, mournful,
bowing to God`s decree.
A life of joy and sorrow,
lived to nth degree.
Bowing to life`s seasons,
buried `neath the tree.
Yet underneath the loaming,
arose a doleful plea.
A soul in constant sorrow,
"Oh God, deliver me."
V
posted by V @ 6:09 AM
Comments: 12
