"The Lords Men"
by Alexander Beedy
The grit in his teeth
The callus of his feet
Rare are the weathered hands
Of the Lord's men
As a dying age
We turn the page
And shun that which we yearn
We touch the truth
And eat the fruit
And pray that we don't burn
Please forgive ere the grace
And please forgive forgiveness first
We tread that dessert land
Then ask that His water
Might quench our thirst
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