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Woe is me for what I am, Gathered as the summer fruit; Spreading the shell of a clam, My soul desires a root. As when the grapes has been gleaned, First-ripe my soul desires; Ensuring as pure and cleaned, For what my taste requires. The godly perished from earth, No one left to be upright; Blood lies await for their worth, But none of them see the light. Their hands are what is evil, As the judge asks for a bribe; The soul craved by the devil, To become part of his tribe. Thus he weaves them together, For mischievous desire; The most upright will gather, To be a hedging brier. As the day of your watchmen, Has come for your punishment; In chaos God will condemn, For wicked accomplishment. Put no trust in a neighbor, No confidence in a friend; Guard yourself in your labor, From the mouth that will offend. Sons dishonor their father, Enemies in their own house; Daughters against their mother, Conflicts between man and spouse. But I look unto the Lord, Waiting for His salvation; As I walk in one accord, To be His new creation. Copyright © 2020 Richard Newton Sherrer Vote for this poem
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