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Oh, what a privilege, what a gift
To preach the Word to earthen clay,
Which, filled, will spill; when cracked, will grasp
At fleeting “shoulds” and “oughts” each day.

Though weak and waning, still we speak
The healing truths from realms above.
Through broken voice, the Pneuma spreads
Its wings and whispers words of love.

If strong our voices dare to rise,
Yet know not how our frailty weighs,
We’ll never to the Healer cling
Who sets our hearts in holy heat.

But humbled souls may yet proclaim
And ask, “What burden do you bear?”
“No matter, His own hand will heal,
And in His book, your name is there.”