Wonder-drenched...

 

The dawn is drenched in grace un-quenched

As oceans of His mercy swell

From eons of immortal love

In shades that tongue can never tell

Now we lift up our fragile cup

Oh, what is man that God should fill

Our wayward wants while heaven flaunts

But whispers of His wondrous will?

Though sorrow-streams and broken dreams

Have laid their grief upon our brow

And though we strain beneath life’s pain

Humbly beneath His touch we bow

For this is He who died for me

That rends the dark with molten sun

We cannot know His thought, and so

We whisper, not my will be done

The dawn is drenched in hope unclenched

God is not dead, not does he sleep

Unfathomed vaults His Hand exalts

As morning spills across its deep

© Janet Martin

‘Mom, your boots are squeaking’, laughs Victoria, as we watch His wonder unfold in 22 below temps.

Now an hour later...