marsh zinc
He knelt by his bed at night to pray,
Hands folded tight, words soft as clay.
A cross on his wall, a Bible nearby,
Yet truth slipped away like clouds in the sky.
In church he sang hymns with a steady tone,
But carried a secret he faced alone.
For every “Amen” his lips declared,
A fib in his heart was quietly snared.
He wore his faith like a polished crown,
But fear of the truth kept pulling him down.
The boy was a liar, yet longed to be free,
To live in the light where his heart could see.
One tear on the altar, one whispered plea
“Lord, make me honest, make me like Thee.”
And grace, like a river, began to flow,
Washing the boy so the truth could grow.
rich pond