If I don’t think of God, He thinks of me,
what time I don’t give Him, to me He gives,
I dream, He makes me face reality,
though I don’t live for Him, for me He lives.
God’s gifts come from His heart, but where are mine?
He gives so much, He only wants my heart,
my heart is of the world, not the divine,
He draws me closer, while I draw apart.
Then Christmas comes, I notice God a bit,
among the noise and presents, He’s the center,
“the reason for the season” is a hit,
and He bids me to ask Him now to enter.
He enters, turns the page, I, a new leaf,
Christ is the Christmas rage, however brief.
by Pete Voelz
No comments:
Post a Comment