She sat still.
Her whereabouts told
Of empty time,
Time filled
With nothing.
What she could
Do would not be much
For such a King
In glory.
Her days are but a moment,
Her efforts small and tiny;
What she could do
Would not compare
To what Jesus did,
His Story.
Such frazzled eyes
And chasing heart;
She was Martha
And not Mary.
To sit,
To listen,
She longed for,
But so filled she
Was with hurry.
The voice,
True voice
And gentle calm;
The Savior's patient
Love;
She knew that life
Was but a part
From what was up above.
YOU ARE READING
War Underneath
PoetryWords and thoughts about things that are fought within the heart, soul, and mind. The flesh is weak, but the spirit is willing; And the dog you choose to feed will win. ~~~~~ Author Note: I will warn you that words can wield just like a sword and t...
