The Path of Truth
A word in season, fit for a soul
As asked the Saviour, ‘wilst thou be made whole?’
‘Aye Sir, Thou knowest it all’
For thrice He asked, even after my fall
Much trust in self I had
Too confident, it got to my head
How could He warn so publicly?
Lest unguarded would I be sorry
Sift like wheat? Me? Cannot be!
Was I in light, one of the three?
Inner circle, most privileged
He not my wife’s mother healed?
A pebble indeed was I likened to
But the Rock, guess it was who
Upon this Rock the church be built
Such as in the desert, water from a flint
The eleven, each has his own ploy
On His breast, the lad always His joy
Our old men, did share their lot
Their posterity now leaving the North
Just to be with this Master
All over this land, how long not to matter
Surpassing our faith, away more my fear
Though usually thought less, my mouth more into gear
But so patient, He was with me
How I wish you were here
To see such purity in His life
A solitary soul, much peace, not strife
Here now I sit with the rest
All secluded, He commanded it was best
For we to wait for such a promise
All would not afford to miss!
To comfort our sorry souls!
To empower, fill those voidden holes!
For without this power, you would guess
We thus would remain, our worsened selves!
How I long for those unborn
To review these paths we have worn
To behold Him whose name is Truth
For eternity beckons those who would!