Grace
Hope eternal springs as the mockingbird sings on a wire
in the lone, still night
of his wing now broken yet, taking flight.
As the church bells ring
the faithful to the Savior bring a song.
Tis the same plea they make in serenade, the poor
housemaid, and the rich who've strayed
as the broken bird whom death has bade
that grace will absolve them as the day is long.
The vicar prescribes it's not ours to know
why the evil comes or where the harsh wind blows but to
bend our wills to the path that God hath chose
beneath the scourge of a broken bow, we must be strong.
The bird knows not of all these things, only his wing as
Heaven's wide and pearly door hears everything.
Our desperate prayers, the bird's worshiping. The
Mockingbird chirps to God its plainsong.
To presume you are heard
as the little bird who chances not a word who limps along as grace is stirred and goes as far as she can with her torch song.
Nina's Books: www.amazon.com/author/ninabingham
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