Abba Father,
The tropical storm churns the sea,
Waves are higher than shoreline trees,
Winds have torn everything into shreds,
It’s hard at night to lay down my head.
Thunderheads have rolled way past the shore,
One even now pounds on roof and door,
Threatening lives near by to change forevermore,
A deeper, darker force at this storm’s core.
Truth be told Lord, it’s not the winds,
Or drowning rain, or lightening’s clashing din.
It’s the struggle in the hearts of all men,
To follow You or the paths of sin.
The storm is one of our own making,
We’re our own best enemies in the fighting.
Forgive me Father when I turn from You,
When Your hand is what I long to cling to.
Be with me now in our Cottage by the Sea,
While the storm blows over this is where I’ll be,
Trusting that beyond this angry, screeching storm,
The Son is shining for those reborn.
              d.f.a.v.  5/11/15
—Donna