Poetry

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Restore us, O God of Hosts,
Shine Your face so we may be saved;
Each and everyone who boasts,
Earthly sinning has enslaved.

You brought vines out of the land,
Drove out heathens to plant it;
Nurtured to grow in the sand,
Watered for fruit to be fit.

You cleared the ground to take root,
For it grew to fill the land;
Sun and rain had made the fruit,
Pruning bad branches by hand.

The mountains covered with shade,
As well as cedar branches;
So that the vines won’t fade,
From the sun rays advances.

It sent branches to the sea,
As it shoots to the river;
The Lord had made a decree,
Warm air so it won’t shiver.

Why have you broken down walls,
All who pass can pluck the fruit;
The drunkard stumbles and falls,
As he trips over a root.

The boar come from the forest,
Wild beasts that will consume;
Fresh fruit is a tasty fest,
The harvest set to its doom.

Copyright ©2023 Richard Newton Sherrer

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