Gathered Stones

Sometimes great quandaries know my soul:
I marvel at the silliness of man;
"How," I ask, "can God be in control
As chaos wreaks such havoc in the land?" But rectitude requires I search my soul
For evidence of sin's corrupting sway—
I find that I am not so whole
But that egotistic aims get in the way. Turmoil makes the newscast every day.
Sin is justified: "The right belongs to man!"
The worldly walk the broad, destructive way.
Christ's disciples trust as they began When first they leaned upon the Arm of Grace.
They know what Heaven has the power to overcome
Any evil artifice the tempters place
To thwart the grand design in Heaven's plan. I should suggest a balm for injuries
For I have the genes of Adam in my bones.
I have, by grace, avoided many injuries
But have not been commissioned to throw stones.

by Raymond F. Rogers

Other poems of RAYMOND F. ROGERS (2)

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