To fly

by Pauly Hart

Isn’t it wonderful?

A bird flies.

A crow cries,

and all my life just dies,

as Christ lives,

and I give,

and all my gifts seem despised.

As I kill, then He will,

and He fills

me up each day.

My soul flies,

and my spirit within

does rise.

Just as I am

without one plea,

but that His blood was shed for me.

Copyright 2010 by pauly hart