To fly


Isn't it wonderful?
A bird flies.
A crow cries,
and all my life just dies,
as Christ lives,
and I give,
and all my gifts seem despised.
As I kill, then He will,
and He fills
me up each day.
My soul flies,
and my spirit within
does rise.
Just as I am
without one plea,
but that His blood was shed for me.


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart