The Poet That Prayed

A precious pilgrim poet prayed Because no words would come, He asked God if he'd disobeyed, Because his heart felt numb... A vision formed within his mind, Like none he'd seen before, With white-hot furnace gold refined God stretched from shore to shore... Like molten lava from the Lord, The streets were paved with gold... As if God's grace had been outpoured For all men to behold... As if the old paths must be changed, Transformed by Jesus Christ And once the streets were rearranged, God's might was realised... Thus those that fled could now return, When God made all things new, With wonders they could share and learn, To know what they must do... The poet asked the Lord's advice, Were these streets here on Earth, Or were they streets in Paradise And of some future worth? The Lord replied, the streets were those Where Gospel truths are taught... Where love can blossom like the rose, Through peace that Christ has bought... His Blood atones for souls set free, No matter, young or old... It's by our faith in Calvary, Saints' streets are paved with gold... (July 2011)