8 Yet, O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.
Ne're shall we forget the potter and the vine.
Ne're shall we distract from His Glory...
The fields are filling
with the green of Spring.
The trees hold full
with branches worn by winter's ware.
The showers to follow
The flowers to bloom
Not too soon
ForThose
Who mark the early morn
find an ease beyond January...
An opening Summer reborn
from past scattered seed...
All meeting the need
for one seeking a cleansing rain...
a gentle breeze
and the beauty of a single rose.
