Sunday, 8 November 2009

The lark, it waits, its beating breast downcast,
Quiet for the break of day and end of night.
Long has this night laid waste the breath of soul,
Its breadth, the scope, is shrivelled, overstretched.
To duty, honour-bound, it has become
Burdened and shackled to its tree of shame.
The dark of lies, they blight the heart of strength;
In close the walls, the voices overpower.
But hush! Recall, Redemption slew the tree!
Lift up, lift up your eyes my weary child, 
Your Hope, once dead, is woke alive again;
Renewed in songs of grace and starfields vast.
              Dance now in light of sun and promise old,
              New spoken as the spring of joy retold.

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