Jerusalem exults with joy: Behold ye Christ the King! He’s Elohim’s truest envoy. Hosanna! Let us sing The chants of faithfulness and love, True Love of ether high, Whose herald is the peaceful dove; Turn hearts to Jesus: aye!
Men of the world, praise Him, rejoice And bring Him precious gifts And listen to His assertive voice And live in grace and thrift.
It’s now sin sorry Sunday, you don’t look so swell, look in the mirror, look like hell, start thinking, I’m sick of living this way, I’m steadily getting older each and every day. I go out looking for a good
There’s a pile of wounded umbrellas overlapping in the derelict doorway, sure to be some kind of slumbering gorilla back there, grinding its gray knuckles into the tiles and broken glass. Hundreds of people walking by on market day, bands
Just not my day. When everyone else is making hay I sit at home and lay between threads with not much to say. I weave and weave colourful stories but stories they stay while I keep waiting for things to
God is waiting condensed within the church for the mosaic of belief to arrive. a mile away the minister is loosely holding the steering wheel of his aged sedan stunned by visions of dazzling supermarket aisles barking abundance and glittering
Looking at how vibrantly the tree’s leaves dance. Swaying side to side. Side by side. I watch the cars driving sorta fast up and down the street. The breeze have picked up some. Quite cool this afternoon is this Sunday’s