The Power of Poetry
A Garden of Prayer
I’m sitting here in the morning sun And I’m thinking of all the things the hands of praying women do. Their hands are so busy, yet they give so much love. Their hands wash and scrub and serve a thousand kind deeds. Their hands move in rhythm to the song they sing, There must be a reason they call it Sunday. They’re raising their hands to the sky and praying, as they do each day so deep and true,
I have such a hard time keeping up with them. They’re lovers of Jesus and neighbors and kin, They help the world spin with all their good intentions, Their hands hold other hands with loving regard. Their hands are busy, and they keep on giving as they pray to the heavens above. Their hands hold my hand in their prayers each day, And these praying women are NEVER in vain. They’re always good people with a kind word or deed, It’s like they were born that way, for goodness sake! If I could take a peek into their lives and understand why their hands are raised to the sky in prayer, I know it would be clear because I’m sitting here in the morning sun.
In the shadow of a solitary mountain, Where the wind is soft. Sitting by myself, I dream of what might have been if time never moved on. What I would do if things were different. I think about the good old days, When my hands were strong, and I looked forward to the future. But now I’m old, My hands are soft, and I am stuck in a shell of a body. This is where I sit alone, dreaming of what could have been.
Be careful of what you wish for, Though wish you had to be much more careful.
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Poetry is everywhere 💚 But the question is, how much do you love it?
