Poetry

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All our days will pass away,
We bring our years to an end;
Under His wrath within a day,
Like a sigh this life will suspend.

The years of life is seventy,
Yet their span is but of trouble;
By reason of strength of eighty,
Buried alive in the rubble.

They are gone as we fly away,
Who knows the power of anger;
Like an eagle to snatch a prey,
Your wrath of fear if you languor.

Teach us to number our days,
As to get a heart of wisdom;
Our mind on the Lord always,
In order to seek His Kingdom.

How long to return to the Lord,
His servants repent for pity;
It seems like we have been ignored,
Prepared to enter His City.

We are needing His steadfast love,
That we may rejoice and be glad;
As it pours down from up above,
The blessings come forth every day.

We need to be glad as many days,
As we have been made afflicted;
Temptation of evil that strays,
Causing to become addicted.

Let the work of the Lord be shown,
To His children of their power;
Allowing the glory be known,
That will make the heathens cower.

Let the favor of our Lord,
Establish work of our hands;
As to being in one accord,
For satisfying His commands.

Copyright © 2021 Richard Newton Sherrer

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