Poemetry: Psalm

My hands quake with fevered chill

but sure is Your Hand by which I stand.

Lord, keep my shaking breast still

like Your mighty mountain spans.

You, oh Lord, have raised them sure

and shored them to endure,

and so shall I by each sigh

You breathe be raised to life.

Each whisper, each whistling breeze,

proclaims Your nearness to me

and grants me to stand in freedom

as from unknown illness my soul frees.

And all the world will establish their eyes

on the heavens and praise You

one with me in holy view

for You have heard Your people’s cries.

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