Monday, October 4, 2010

:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.His Sand.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:

Past time is the sand
    That drained through the fist I made.
Present is the sand
     That bleeds through my cupped hands.
Future is the sand
     That God’s will pour in my hand.
Faith holds out my hands.
      Trust is accepting the sand.

How much more will come?
      What is it that falls from Him?
I know only some,
       And much of it’s sadly grim.
It’s from His own hand,
       That He dumps on His children.
And I know His Dad,
       He’s my Hope, He has it planned.


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