The Aspiring Bard

Brad Sloan There is a place Within the soul; Where waters rise And waters roll And deep cries out Unto the deep An ocean tide Of heavy grief. There is a place Within the void Where balm drops down To the destroyed And brings a oneness To the Man Whose bleeding struck Destruction's head. 

Lord, not my will but Yours be done With each rising of the sun. With each gasp of borrowed breath Let me make a surer death Of self and all my selfish ways To offer up a purer praise.