Of Andrew’s Spirit

 
We have found Him
And know that He is truth
Distilled and pure.
A Certain Spring,
'Though damp and slush
Delay the budding.
A Prince with yarns
Of fields and flowers
And feathered trust.
Unspoiled by gold
Or other trappings
Of convention.
Unmoved by rank
Or rule of present powers.
But moved by
Smallest cry of
Pain or shame
Or lonely lot.
A Man whose every
Waking step displays
Assurance, equity,
Mercy, patience, hope
Direct from Heaven.
Whose gaze commands.
The Promised One.
Re-charging nightly
On hills of prayer,
(With His Father,
So He says.)
As we have slept.
Brother, drop your net.
Come meet this One.
Come meet your future