They Ask

They ask me,

What I believe,

And as I tell them,

About Christ my Savior,

And how he saved me,

By his blood,

I hear skeptism,

In the edge of their voice,

And if they are saying,

” How can you believe? ”

And I ask them,

” How could they not? ”

His presence is everywhere,

In the air we breathe,

The gentle rustling of

A Summer breeze,

In the song,

Of a babies cries,

And a Mother’s soothing voice,

I wonder to myself,

What more proof do they need?


Copyright Michelle R Kidwell



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