David W. Ballard: Professional Writer specializing in Web content writing, copywriting, feature writing, fiction writing, and poetry.

Fallen From Old

Leaves dangle on limb—
Like we:
Green,
And sprouting from shoots—
Reaching for Him.
But the burdening weight
Of wants and desires
Makes us bend.
From shame and guilt?
And were we formed,
Fashioned from dust
For shame sprung
From passions and lusts?
For all this, they overwhelm us,
Frail and failed of
His purposes.
Is this Fatherly love?
Passed down to fatherly love,
Making us hang with our limbs
And faces bowed down?

But, oh, lest I forget:
It’s spring,
And the Son’s rebirth.
Tulips push through their beds.
Sparrows chirp
From their nests
And hop to the ground,
For they balance peace and fear,
Knowing the serpent’s always near,
Who can swallow whole,
Their eggs, filled with hope
And perching in our souls.
For even they, the unborn,
Their feathers unformed,
Have God-granted souls.
So we must deliver them
From serpentine folds
Untold
And perhaps from ourselves,
The Fallen from old.

No comments yet.

Leave a comment