he wonders why all the world
seems to pass along,
a train of seasons,
never seeing him cry out.
wizened lines etch his face,
careworn wrinkles tell of sorrow.
hands calloused with years of labor,
among the masses, yet alone.
ashes blend with silver starlight
at the dawn of hope's first song.
and then the Spirit of the Lord
falls upon him as a wave.
and he cries out Holy, Holy, Holy.
tears and shame are washed away,
private pain brought to light
in the healing song of Yahweh.
the depths of sin washed away,
righteousness raised as a standard
through Jesus Christ, the Lord.
Holy is his name.
8 March 2009 by Glen Alan Woods
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