The power to heal, power to kill (Pro. 18:21)

From morning until evening does fill

Unlike an electronic document, where words disappear with the simple stroke of a key,

Or a sheet of letter paper marked with ink, shredded so easily,

A word, a thought spoken

So carelessly and hastily made known,

Never to return, bearing fruit– shriveled or whole,

And subsequent words, insufficient to console.

 

Honest words and dishonest,

Etched into the listener’s mind

No such luxury to distinguish between,

That which you truly meant and a flippant kind

 

‘Twould seem that liking the sound of one’s voice

Would also mean an appetite for the sour taste of one’s foot.

 

Too often, Lord, I see my dirty feet,

And cannot bear to bring it to my lips,

So I ask you to wash them with your loving hands,

So I won’t let a harsh word slip.

 

Because what is within my heart dispels from my lips,

My mind, heart and soul must be renewed,

Before I remember to hold my dear foot beside me,

To remind myself my oughts and shoulds.

 

Because, Lord, those who I love the most,

Are those who hear my words most,

Because Lord, this same tongue praises you and prays to you,

And my heart, your Spirit’s host.

 

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