By Mark Bishop
Some days it seems this fragile frame
with tar for marrow and oil for blood does naught but hold me back
my spirit's joy confined to words who's deepest meanings lack
I cannot celebrate enough days spent awaiting my return
while I fretted away your very life and loving-kindness spurned
I almost gave up hope in life in finding favor in your eyes.
What love could you have saved for one who loved only his lies
But you saw me from afar while wind gave speed to joyous stride
It took not blows but gentile words to strip away my foolish pride
'Til that day grace was but a word an abstract thought at best
A naked word emptied of truth now its the robe in which I'm dressed
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