The soil is tanted,
Sometimes there is no place for seeds.
So they are scattered,
Across rocks and thorns,
It is seemingly all evil deeds.
There is no perfect,
Not for us,
But how do we fail,
Just to meet such a low standard?
The earth trembles,
By his voice,
Kings shall lay thier crown.
All by choice.
Soon one day,
We shall all see his face,
So meet a better standard,
Be prepared to stand in his grace.
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