At my absolute worst,
He picketh me still,
He knew me when yet unformed in my mom's womb
Wrote he the days of my life in his book, -
God
A day passeth not with dirt in my hands
And heart full of contempt, filth and - sin
Hard to forgive selves for the evil we lay
Upon self-He that loves all, he writes it off
Again and again, maketh us white as snow
We'd never know what it's like to have us
In your image and likeness,
Yet ungrateful us, still picking worldly needs over yours,
Perhaps that's how it's always been
Every day you answer prayers, life abundance your
Provision, And even greater still you welcome us into your table, with arms wider still, and a deeper love
What should we do, always to have thee in our hearts,
God
@ggeorge
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem