Sunday Morning Poem by THEODORE MOSLEY

Greeting the sun with the glory of its beauty we encounter the renewed mercy of love not made with hands.

Making melody in our hearts with hymns of adoration the flowers begin their worship.

The trees begin to praise heaven with the songs of the wind that carried the fowls of the air.

Made in the image and likeness of Abba our Father the standard of holiness prevails.

The gift of love and the power of the Word infiltrates the marrow and bone of our being.

Standing on Holy ground the expectation of our flesh has died according to our faith.

Tears of joy flows from the Blood washed man of forgiveness and the sound of the mighty rushing wind consumes our flesh.

The spirit of the trumpet engaged our worship with deliverance; the spirit of love excelled the flesh of disobedience.

Crying out Holy, Holy, Holy the spirit transfuses the mind into the third heaven where unspeakable words are heard.

The peaceful storm of the Cross of Calvary united our hearts from the bondage of afflictions.

The Arc of the Covenant, the Holy of Holies and the fullness of Pentecost is heard on Sunday Morning.

Written by Theodore Mosley
January 31,2017