take tiny, tattered wings of hope
and burst them at the seams
watch feathers flit in helpless heaps,
the time despair redeems
and mangled bowels of peace's dove
let soak into the earth
and pray to God and Him alone
that hope will find rebirth
the hypocrite sits on his bed
admires himself and poses
he bathes his garden weeds in wine
and vinegar, his roses
God, when will mercy grow too tired
to reach out to rotting limbs;
straining just to hold our hands
and condemn all our sins?
when will grace grow old and leave
to rest in heaven's bliss?
but God, mercy and grace all live
we know not what we'd miss