Thursday 20 May 2010

Historicism.

You've paid her fee, You've paid her price
Now take this harlot as Your wife.
Follow her down streets at night,
She chooses shadows, never light.
Unfaithful bride for all your life,
You cannot claim to be surprised.
You know her heart's with frailties rife,
She sees with worldly, starving eyes.

She sells that which is not her own
To those who make her less alone.
No warm embrace but only cold,
They hold her close but grasp on bones.
A hundred houses, none are homes,
In a thousand beds, she finds no love.
She wonders that she's getting old,
When she dies each time her body's sold.

A hundred houses, none are homes,
In a thousand beds, she finds no love.
She wonders that she is getting old,
When she dies each time her body's sold.

But Your grace is enough,
Where she hates, You will love.
Yes your grace is enough,
Though we hate, You still love.

You can make her brand new,
You can make us like You.
Would You make us brand new?
Would you make me like You?

Now in a hundred houses, none are homes,
But she finds her rest kneeling at Your throne.
And in a thousand beds she may find no love,
But her heart is safe in her God above.
And when she worries that she is getting old,
She knows it's one day closer to the day of the Lord.
And if she died each time that her body was sold,
Then she came to life the day that You paid it all...





I can't bear to wake up to another day of Literary Practice. I am not going to bed.

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