God made whispers, songs, and rhyme,
to ease the pain of sordid news,
to force harsh words out of line,
and to a softer, fluid tune.
Well, my voice has been poor since a lad,
the pitch so often slips and falls -
and to whisper words, whether good, or bad,
makes no sense to me at all.
So if from these two, I am recused,
then the third is left, as by design.
So sit my friend, for I bear bad news.
I pray you hear a rhyme.
You live your life in sadness,
a soul always on the brink,
like a slave lashed to sailing ships,
that always seem to sink.
Slowly drowning you believe,
in the darkness will be peace,
the growing cold will stop the fears,
or numb the burning pain at least.
But no grace seems to flow,
in these murky, fretful seas,
all your hopes seem to fade away,
except those that seek eternal sleep.
The pressure mounts as you descend,
the light disappears so you can’t see,
with no air you now lack the strength,
to break out from your broken dreams.
But someone stands above the waters,
a Sailor with some daunting might,
brought by the winds, tides, and prayers –
those words which keep fears up at night.
He stands and with His graceful touch,
reaches out for your descending hand,
silently, He waits for you to look above,
so He can bring you to dry land.
