From the quiver of the pen to the keyboard’s point,
From the chosen people to the current lineage;
When all the buzz about eternity is joint,
Only one name is being uttered till end age.

They say it is nothing but merely fallacy
And purely unadulterated orchestra
Is this God of many old people’s fantasy.
But what of me, a young writer of such aura?

Sure, you say I’m but just so naïve of pure faith
But I stand up front and braveas a living proof;
I’ve faced the difficult challenges of all truth
Yet I emerge victorious and more aloof.

No, I know I’m not alone in this feisty fight
Since the world’s tendency is to make judgment rule;
Alas, for the forbidden they have turned to gray plight,
Oh but fool’s gold they make and unleash as their tool.

Now, the voice in me screams so clearly for my God,
The author that never halts to work in silence;
No more of modern idols to hold, praise, orlaud,
Even as I’m casted, you’re with me at islands.

Nonstop you move, taking away nothing that harms
Your chosen flock, all choosing your mission to do.
To who else I can go than to your loving arms,
For I shall not find rest till I find rest in you.

It is up to your senses to grasp mystery
Of how God quietly works, believer or not.
Though, one thing to note in pages of history,
Hey, God has done for you and me a lot of shot.