[Written for the Sentinel]

There is Lifting

HE rideth into Egypt—
Into Egypt the Lord rideth
Swift upon a cloud,
Searching out His own.
He shatters idols,
So high grown.
Each is against his brother,
Each is against his neighbor.

The Lord loveth His people;
Parched sands grow moist
Where reeds and flags
Lie withered;
Filled by little brooks,
Flow freely;
And fine flax is spun.
The Lord enfolds each one,
Brother to brother,
Neighbor to neighbor. . . .

The King of love is passing by,
Gathering in His people—
You and me;
Swift upon a cloud
He builds a healing highway,
The burden of Egypt,
And blessing.

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