Here is my elementary attempt at writing poetry again. It’s been a long time.

Who can measure the strength of His hand?
Who can alter His command to stand?

Who is he who crafts the fragile god,
That in the end, again, returns to sod

One holds me fast while towers tumble;
The other multiplies grief and trouble,

I have chosen the master’s hands,
To prepare my heart for the Promised Land.

 Whoever contends with Christ’s heirs shall parish,
For it is He who has chosen me to cherish.