With broken heart and banished life
we wait for drops of rain to cry.
This is the desert , parched terrarin.
Lord , purify what will not die.
Our sin has moved our souls from self.
We wait for drops of rain to cry
in drifts of sand that shift our stance
and stall all will to try.
The desert is an arid place
that waits for drops of rain to cry.
Lord , here w seek your swollen face,
the gaze that stayed when we denied.
The desert holds your chosen race
that tasted manna from the sky.
the rain that falls is living Grace.
Lord Jesus , purify!
by Rita A . Flansburg
