A writer can embellish things
Like children often do,
But if I met the King of Kings,
My words must then be true...
I could describe the streets of gold,
A river crystal clear,
Or wondrous secrets I was told
Revealed to cast out fear...
I could explain the sights I saw,
The music that I heard,
My mansion there for evermore,
Christ's every single word...
I could provide some prophecy
Of worldly times ahead,
Or humbly say, 'Christ died for me...
And for my sins He bled...'
I could enthuse about the joys
Of children close to Christ,
The smiles of little girls and boys
As they looked up surprised...
Or tell of angels singing psalms
King David once composed,
Or say I touched Lord Jesus' palms,
His wrists with wounds now closed...
But I've not been to Heaven's Gate,
Nor seen Saint Peter there,
As if for me he had to wait
To say my final prayer...
Nor have I walked with Christ above,
Or praised Him on His Throne,
Yet on this Earth I know His love,
The greatest ever known...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem