Song for the Suffering Sons

Monday, April 21, 2008

All creation heaves and groans,
Travailing with no repose. 
A single desire deeply moans 
In these sons' turbid souls.

O, come forth, My faithful child,
And behold your great reward:
My Son, your Brother, mild—
A body like His—triumphant and scarred.

Joyfully bear the weight of glory whole! 
A dangerous delight, in Me, to embrace—
Now! The absence of sinful flesh's control
For Terror turned to gladness by Holy grace.

Oh, what hope of blissful day
Upon our tired hearts descend.
Stand firm! bruised heels of clay
For soon He comes, the skies to rend.

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