Nights can be hard, but Satan can't win if we call for help.
In this dark and blood-dimmed night
the devil comes to call,
and with ember'd finger writes
these words upon my wall,
"You are failure, you are fraud,
a loser fit to beat the band;
where, now, is your precious God,
to stop the running sand?
You write of faith but not of truth
that's in my sight fulfilled,
and your dying's living proof
that those who hope are killed..."
These words his last, for in the East
rises the Son, to slay the beast.
Appropriately, the Five Minute Friday prompt for this week is MORNING. Here goeth nothin...
Although I know it's evening
that I am moving toward,
I still can't help believing
that it's the Morning of the World.
Metastasis is in my leg,
makes me shuffle feet,
but for healing I won't beg
because my life's so sweet.
Breath comes hard, I won't deny,
but air is cool and clean,
and if it's what it means to die,
then death's not cold and mean,
but a warm breeze from an open door
scented by what was loved before.
Five minutes! SnOoPyDaNcE!
Barb's reply to the first poem and inclusive of the Five minute word.
Devil you may speak of flesh
As much as you desire
But in the end eternity
Is in the Savior's realm
For He is more
Then the Morning Star
you once were
and Hell is built
For the likes of your
and followers thus.
Ladron the Chief Service Dog has developed a liking for classic Westerns, especially Tales Of The Wells Fargo, so here's a link to 'Wells Fargo Wagon' from The Music Man.