In a quiet room, a sacred space,
A preacher kneels, seeks divine grace,
A call to stand, a call to speak,
A task profound, a mission unique.
A sermon waits in pregnant pause,
A message wrapped in heaven's gauze,
With trembling hands and furrowed brow,
He wonders, prays, "Oh Lord, show me how."
The Word is sharp, the Truth is keen,
A double-edged sword, pure and serene,
To wield it well, a task immense,
A burdened heart, a conscience tense.
A message deep, a lesson to unfold,
With trowel in hand, the truth is being told,
Through valleys dark, and pastures green,
A shepherd guides with tools unseen.
The weight of words, the challenge vast,
To connect the present with the ancient past,
To break the Bread, to pour the Wine,
A feast of Love, a taste divine.
In pulpit high, or humble street,
With voice that roars or whispers sweet,
He preaches hope, he speaks of peace,
A call to love that never shall cease.
For in his words, a holy fire,
A passion fueled by pure desire,
To lead the lost, to heal the broken,
A preacher's call, God's love unspoken.
Oh Preacher, stand with courage true,
For Heaven speaks and works through you,
May grace abound, may love ignite,
Your words a beacon, a guiding light.
