Nothing makes me quite as happy
As my church does.
It's welcoming and close,
Like a family away from home.
Your trials and tribulations rest not
On your shoulders alone.
It's a place of sharing,
It's a place of caring.
The roof of my church acts as
A barrier for the bad.
Wrapping me in the good,
Dispelling the hurt.
Stepping through the doors,
Is like entering a new world entirely.
You leave all of your worries
At the door.
And if you're lucky, they're not
Waiting for you when you leave.
But my church is not what heals me,
It is merely
A place of refuge whilst I wait out
The storm inside my chest.
What heals me is in fact the reason
I go to church in the first place.
What heals me is my God,
He who gave His only Son.
For us, us who did not deserve
All that he sacrificed to show His love.
What heals me, is His faith in me,
Me who has never had faith.
In myself or anyone else,
Until He came along and had faith.
What heals me, is the realisation
That He is a constant.
Even when all of the others are gone,
My God is still by my side.
What heals me, is the knowledge
That I am strong in God.
Even when I struggle to be okay,
I know that I have Him.
There is no doubt in my mind,
That He is what heals me.
As my strength grows with each day,
I know it is Him.
It is Him pushing me forward,
Showering me in His love.
There is no doubt in my mind,
That He is what heals me.
g.c.g
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
The blossom of a poet
Thơ CaWords fall softly like the petals from a blossom tree, drifting slowly onto the paper, creating poetry like the spring, beautiful and light, but just like the seasons, the poetry changes, the autumn comes and the words become heavy, falling quickly...
