Ominous clouds of utter blackness, Billowing in their ranks, March across the low horizon Like artillery, soldiers, tanks. They move in angry opposition With malice thru and thru Against the sky’s content condition Of golden, gilded blue. And those who watch the signals See signs from up on high, Painted in prophetic vision Across a divided sky.
The funny thing with roses, they start as just a bud; Some take so long to open, they seem like just a dud. But no amount of wishing will make them open up, Like no amount of wanting removed the bitter cup.
The drought was getting serious, The situation bleak, And for the want of sustenance The village was getting weak. And the thing that was most needed, On the hot and thirsty plain, Was a life sustaining downpour— A good old-fashioned rain.
When life gets hard and trying and difficult to take And leaves you lying in the night—worried, wide awake, May you find some peace in knowing this is not unique to you— For God will try every heart to test which ones are true.