The Blessed Word

A Blessed Word . . . Soft spoken heart

Can melt the inner most of man

To run as wax . . . To form His art

Or bind each step for which one stands

It does not come without a tear

Nor does it settle on the waves

It profits not the proudest ear

But soothes the soul,  though poor or slave

The Blessed Word,  as pure as gold

Will sow the many seeds of field

With soaring wings . . . A message told

To bless the plow of earth to till

The Word will flow to all of earth

As water feeds the greenest field

To be as milk to our new birth

And hail to weeds that bare not shield

How great the Blessed Word as flesh

A stumbling block for those to fall

Who find not comfort . . . Soul refreshed

With Heaven’s purest Voice to call

                                                    Amen

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