Daily there are new hits.
The death toll rising and no place to sit,
at the table of commerce there is hunger and doubt.
Some will be let in but so many left out.
So a new reality is here.
In whom will I trust and whom will I fear?
Will people be kind and help stop the bleeding?
My country is dying and my soul is grieving.
Decency and kindness are being crucified!
No one tells the truth, the media is all lies!
My soul is crying in the long dark night!
Deliver us oh God with your Holy light!
Never let it be said of this patriot here,
that she ever gave up her country so dear!
Let her be remembered as a woman who prayed,
“In God we trust until the end of days!”
Photo by PhotoMIX
It’s always been broken and now it’s on fire.
The world is so angry and so very tired,
But there has always been an answer.
There has always been The Way.
For all to be forgiven and start again today.
The Way might be a walk through the fire.
It might be a walk through The Door.
The Way stands there waiting and calling…
Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.” John14:6,7.
Photo by Anni Roenkae
Weary days of fear and foe
Deep purple pain just won’t let go
All through the day and into the night
Grief and anger fires burn bright.
My country weeps and cracks inside
Believers pray and mother’s cry
Dear God please hear us as we pray
We are sorry that we act this way.
Deep purple pain upon The Cross
No one else could pay the cost
Let us walk in your Salvation now
and humbly at your feet bow down.
Photo by Magda Ehlers
I saw fields of cotton white as snow
as blood red drops flowed down and soaked
those cotton fields and the earth below.
Yes the Blood dripped down on the cotton bolls.
As the Louisiana sun beat down that day
in June of 64 three boys came to say
we want to help you learn to vote
but they were shot down and the cotton was soaked.
Blood of black men drip down so slow
from the cottonwood tree the bodies swinging low
No one would help them, they were all alone
and the sun went down on the bloody cotton bolls.