She jerks another grey hair from her head, and winces as she drops it on the floor. O God, how long? “She’ll have a son”, you said, but I can’t bear the waiting any more. She wipes away the sweat and steels her will to gather corn. The real ache’s deep inside. She freely chose this migrant life, but still she’s longing to be rescued, made a bride. She waits, she grieves. Perhaps that she is you. Perhaps you are a Sarah or a Ruth. Perhaps your dearest dreams have not come true. Perhaps your heartache’s drowning out the truth: he sees your tears, and though your dreams may die (such bitter deaths), he turns all death to life.
That they may have life
That they may have life
That they may have life
She jerks another grey hair from her head, and winces as she drops it on the floor. O God, how long? “She’ll have a son”, you said, but I can’t bear the waiting any more. She wipes away the sweat and steels her will to gather corn. The real ache’s deep inside. She freely chose this migrant life, but still she’s longing to be rescued, made a bride. She waits, she grieves. Perhaps that she is you. Perhaps you are a Sarah or a Ruth. Perhaps your dearest dreams have not come true. Perhaps your heartache’s drowning out the truth: he sees your tears, and though your dreams may die (such bitter deaths), he turns all death to life.