The pulse of life floods in my veins;
laughter or sorrow come what may, my Lord.
With every sweet song bird or budding bloom;
I feel Your present-hopeful ray, my Lord.
From dingy dirt to austere ash I go;
You the Potter – I am the clay, my Lord.
Terrible tempest clutch eternal joy;
I pause to say come what may, my Lord.
When if I stumble or swagger about;
I remember my sins – You pay, my Lord.
With my very last breath, You stayed, my Lord;
may your daughter, Patricia, stay my Lord.
For dVerse FormForAll: On Ghazals and the Ghazal Sonnet