Wednesday, June 14, 2017

The Atonement

The surface of this mortal world
Is rife with wicked pain
In friendships lost and sin advanced
Without hand to restrain

The constant flood, or so it seems.
No purpose in the strain
Of broken heart or illnesses -
Nor hope of life refrain

From pouring anguish in our souls.
It seems transgression's stain
Must mold our lives and future selves
And in existence reign.

But in the joy of heaven's light
We find all marks of wrong made right.


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