What but as bread, This appears to beIs You, Lord, it’s truly TheeIt is You, Lord, I now receiveThis is true, not just because I believeMy belief cannot createCan’t sew a seed, give man a mateCan’t fashion out of dustOne who knows You, merciful and justAlone, I am...
A cold coming we had of it,Just the worst time of the yearFor a journey, and such a long journey:The ways deep and the weather sharp,The very dead of winter.'And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,Lying down in the melting snow.There were times we regrettedThe...
When a writer pens poetry he or she uses a linguistic paintbrush to form in the mind of the reader a place full of emotion that no other writing style can express. Human experiences are so deep and so powerful that our language does them no justice. What seems like...