How precious the rains that will descend,
And refresh the scorched earth of this fallen World.
But look! What is that silhouette upon a jagged skyline?
Is it a withered stump, or a wasted tree in eternal decline?
I am not sure. But as I gaze through blinding sleeting rain,
My reverie is interrupted by a voice heard in my brain:
You fool do you not know that upon that haughty hill,
Hung the Saviour of the World so bruised, so alone, so still.
And did not that appointed rain ordained for that hour,
seep through trampled grass, tenacious mud and fragrant flower?
To convey the anointing precious blood of Christ the King,
To yet harvest unsaved souls, still weeping from Satan’s sting!
Only now do I see through red-rimmed eyes,
That this world is built upon spontaneous sin and charismatic sighs!
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