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Dear Lord, (Other) by INTRANSIT
what is this winter's chill?
Revenge- it calls; I will not rent.
Spirit of man is frozen still
while mercy fills me I'll not be bent
and I am moved if by your will
a robust heart with deep pigment
and I become spring's daffodil
the who I am shall not relent.
Gray hairs spark and thrust me forth
through many tears that I have cried
as I have built this life towards north
these chisels worn I leave behind.
And once I've passed my deathly port
my scroll as long as life is wide
unto you I shall report
though I've not turned man's tide.
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