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Your eyes saw my unformed substance, In Your book where it was written; Each of us growing as infants, Disciplined and had to smitten. Each one of the days that took form, When as of yet that there was none; In being fashioned to transform, Into a daughter or a son. How precious to me is Your thought, How vast is the amount of them; Forming me the way You had sought, With no desire to condemn. They are more than the grains of sand, If I would ever count them all; I am still with You where You stand, You catch me if I trip and fall. Surely You would slay the wicked, So that men of blood would depart; Making Your promise so vivid, Purge those without purified heart. They speak with malicious intent, Enemies take Your name in vain; For they merely want to torment, Persecuting the righteous with pain. I hate not those who hate You, I do not loathe those who defy; I merely tell them what is true, Though they continue to deny. I hate them with complete hatred, I count them as my enemies; They honor not what is sacred, Only having animosities. Search me O God and know my heart, Try me and know of all my thoughts; Your Word I constantly impart, Not deterred by evil onslaughts. See if there is a grievous way, That would lead me down the dark path; Any wickedness that I would stray, If found spare me not from your wrath. Copyright © 2021 Richard Newton Sherrer Vote for this poem
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