Beneath the stars, his soul does bow,
A sinner’s prayer whispered somehow.
Tears carve rivers down sorrowed skin,
A plea for grace to cleanse within.
Yet you, so proud in righteous rest,
Dream tranquil nights, your faith professed.
But Mercy’s hand may lift his plea,
And leave your pride, uncalled, to be.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 4:07 PM UTC
Beneath the stars, his soul does bow,
A sinner’s prayer whispered somehow.
Tears carve rivers down sorrowed skin,
A plea for grace to cleanse within.
Yet you, so proud in righteous rest,
Dream tranquil nights, your faith professed.
But Mercy’s hand may lift his plea,
And leave your pride, uncalled, to be.
Request permission to use this poem