Shunned At A Funeral — This Is The Poetry

This is the poetry of creation.
A word in the dark, and the dark gives and singing] way
Light on the water, the water in motion
And night finds its
Border and opens today.
Thorn after
Thorn on the rain-bright mountain, lark after lark in the wind-woken trees
He speaks the world into color and cadence
Then gives it a voice.
And the rivers and seas all sing the line.
Let the hills reply.
Let
The fiddle fly where the swallows fly.
From
The first bright breath to the final page, every verse belongs
To the
Lord of grace
This is the poetry broken by eden.
A
Hand to the fruit and a heart turned away
We hid in the leaves as the evening descended.
We heard him come
Walking and feared what he'd say
Thorn after thorn grew across the garden
Dust followed dust down the long road of years.
Yet there in the ruin
Before we could ask him, he promised a
Seed who would answer our
All sing the line.
Let the hills reply.
Let the fiddle fly where the swallows fly.
From the first bright breath to the final page, every verse belongs
To the
Lord of grace
This is and singing] the poetry
Of redemption.
The word took on flesh
And walked and music] into our night.
He stood with the poor and the bruised and the burdened
And called to the blind till
Their eyes filled with light.
Nail after
Nail drove deep through his body.
The sky lost its color.
The curtain was torn.
He bore what
Was ours and he gave us his righteousness.
Grace filled our
Names there our faith had been born
We did not write
The saving line
No strength of ours could make it rhyme
The author came to seek his own
And brought the wandering
Children home
This is the poetry of resurrection.
The stone rolled away and the grave gave him back.
Dawn climbed the hill where the women came weeping.
They ran with the news down the dew covered track.
Death
After death shall give away to his kingdom.
The weeping will cease when
He wipes every eye.
The lamb who
Was slain is alive and reigning.
The
The goes on when
And singing
World has turned
This is the poetry of heaven
His bride, the holy city, comes down
A new earth unfolds beneath her
Bright heavens.
No grave casts its shadow.
No tyrant wears a crown.
The river runs clear through the streets of his kingdom.
The tree bears its fruit
For the healing of lands.
The lamb is
Our light and he dwells here
Among us.
We see him at last and are
Held in his hand
From the first
Bright breath to the final page
Every verse belongs to the
Lord of grace.
So, sing the line.
Let the hills reply.
Let the fiddle fly where the swallows fly.
From the first bright breath to the final page, every
Verse belongs
To the lord
Of grace
And the author will finish what
He began