A Cry ascends—through Storm and Strife—
My Heart in Anguish—torn—
The Wicked weave their Words of Knife—
Yet God—He hears—my Morn.
Betrayal stings—its Smooth Disguise—
A Friend—once Dear—now Foe—
His Words like Butter—hide the Lies—
But God—His Truth—I know.
Oh, for the Wings—of Dove—to soar—
Above the Tempest’s Roar—
To find my Rest—on Distant Shore—
Where Peace shall reign—once more.
I cast my Cares—on Him who saves—
His Hand shall hold—me fast—
No Storm can shake—His Love that braves—
My Shelter—First and Last.
In Morning’s Light—and Noon’s bright Call—
My Voice to Him—ascends—
He hears—He holds—through Night’s dark Thrall—
His Truth—my Soul—defends.
… teknaTruth – on Psalm 55