My words are born of simple things not meant to carry weight;
A memory, an old clichť, emotions I canít shake.
Yet, in the telling of my tales (this canít be second guessed):
No matter what was written some reader will be blessed.
It seems thereís room for ego, so mighty is my pen,
Yet, inwardly, I understand God has done His work again.
He takes the words my pen lays down, and treats them as His own;
Like seeds, my words are planted in Godís Garden, freshly grown.
But the harvest comes much later at a place where I canít beÖ
Some reader reads my story and God sets the reader free.
I could never comprehend itÖ Godís ways are far past mine,
But this one thing I understand: God cares about mankind.
If He can find a person who will write what eíer heíll write
Then God will reach the reader who is struggling in a fight
And, though youíll never know it, your words will strike a cord;
The reader will reap meaning from the garden of your words.
The writer isnít mighty and neither is his penÖ
The might is in the Spirit that guides us from within.
How else can anyone explain what happens when we read?
The simple words the writer writes is now the harvest readers need.
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