A Pocket full of Poems: Though the storm rage on...

A cold stone with his slimy seal,

Rocks my world with his bones of steal.

There is no place for my soul,

Just a heart of acid coal,

With the waves rolling through in low

Rough tumbling turns below,

Etching their design

With no room to resign.

No rest is within his bowls

Or peace between the winds wild howls.

Oh, to be free of him;

To believe and live without the slime of sin,

To reach a hopeful hand to heaven,

And feel a hand reach down and sever

The chains holding fast to a toiling wretch

Below a raging sea of boiling stench.

Oh, to feel the safety of God’s arms,

Rather than the fear before the storm.

This is a sinner’s plight,

But there is still no life,

Until that plight be turned around,

And we are brought down

In prayer, to give our soul a resting place

By trusting in God’s everlasting grace.

Then one day, though the sea rage on,

And pull us down to the great beyond,

We will see our fate sealed,

By the bloody hand of a perfect lamb,

And no more fill our trusting toiling soul,

With the cold slimy stone that rests beneath the heartless sea below.

A Pocket full of Poems