Opus #9

(With appreciation and apologies to R.L. Stevenson...)

The rain is raining all around,

It falls on field and tree,

Reflects the teardrops on my cheek,

While grief envelops me.

The wind keeps whistling merrily,

It mocks my deep despair - 

Pretended joy and happiness, 

Mere castles in the air.

The thunder roars despondent din,

My silence I must keep,

Yet agony is thus proclaim’d,

As deep calls unto deep.

The gloomy grey of clouds above

Shrouds sunshine warm and bright.

The frigid air lays bare my heart:

I wish for death or flight.

Oppressed...forlorn? Abandon’d not!!!

I’m safe beneath His wing,

And though the tempest rages on,

To Christ I clasp and cling.

He holds me fast, my Sanctum true,

Through torrent, gale, and wave,

His grasp is firm; He won’t betray,

I trust in Him to save.

When deluge whelms, He anchors me,

My storm-toss’d soul He calms,

My Ark amid the tumult fierce,

Soul’s Harbor, Home, and Balm.

© Lynne Bourgault Spear, 2007