My heart was cold and far from thee. I ran
Away at ev’ry turn; woo’d blighted foe,
My pride and vain ambition; sought to ban
Thy winsome sway. Sweet Grace, I spurned thy flow.
My dusty soul - oh, shriveled, withered thing! -
Was cracked and parched, the desert during drought.
No drop, no plash, no drizzle could I bring,
So wilted, lifeless, faded, emptied out.
No water - brittle, barren - not a trace;
Dust swirling, whirling, turned all topsy-turve.
I thirst! I cry for rain! No drop of grace
© Lynne Spear, 2006