Oh, the glory that the Lord has made and the complications you could do without when I kissed you on the mouth.
Tuesday night at the Bible study, we lift our hands and pray over your body, but nothing ever happens. I remember at Michael's house in the living room when you kissed my neck, and I almost touched your blouse. In the morning at the top of the stairs, when your father found out what we did that night, and you told me you were scared.
Oh, the glory when you ran outside, with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied, and you told me not to follow you.
Sunday night when I cleaned the house, I find the card where you wrote it out with the pictures of your mother. On the floor at the Great Divide, with my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied; I am crying in the bathroom.
In the morning when you finally go, and the nurse runs in with her head hung low, and the cardinal hits the window. In the morning in the winter shade on the first of March on the holiday, I thought I saw you breathing.
Oh, the glory that the Lord has made, and the complications when I see His face in the morning in the window.
Oh the glory, when He took our place, but He took my shoulders and He shook my face, and He takes and He takes and He takes.
I am sardonic, earnest, and neither