The warm spring rain persisted
Like the need for prayer, insisted I arise.
A call to care, regardless of the hour,
When time knows no limits,
And love requires me to listen!
Whose heart’s cry do I hear?
My own—involved, consumed?
Aware of the power, if I ask, for
The Father’s hand to reach down
And touch—bring healing, redeem, make new.
Whose heart do I hear? The Father’s—
Splintered and crying over lost lives,
The enemy’s stealth and deception,
Muddling perception, leaving blind the sightful.
Whose heart would I hear?
His own—truthful, honest, facing the light
That reveals the pain, not concealing,
But paying the cost for a change.
Deciding that pretense makes no sense
When death brings the ultimate perspective.
How I pray that he would see the Father’s heart,
Broken open for him.
See the arms that welcome the wounded,
turn towards the light—
the light that brings comfort,
The warmth and depth of His love,
love that sheds for him falling tears
like the persistent, quiet Spring rain