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Ichabod 

The bowls are empty
They are bone dry
The anointing is gone
And my hands are chapped

I have fallen
And slowly drifted away
I stare far from my boat
I try to get a glimpse of you

Here in this arctic climate
Surrounded by cold water and ice
The freezing wind hits my face
And sends chills within my spine

I am miserable in my predicament
Saddened by the fact
That what once was is no longer
The glory of the Lord has departed

And I wonder
And stare far
Where
How
When
Now




- A. L. E. -

// posted by Alain @ 11:45 AM