A Sonnet to The King

As Hope runneth out and Faith groweth thin,
Gray Clouds hover on top of Green Meadows.
Darkness took away all reasons to sing;
Anguish falls, the ground was wet with sorrows.

Lo, a Voice in the Garden is crying
- Not unto Help, but to them that suffer.
Faint not beloved, with all thy strength, cling!
Dawn is near, the night is nearly over!

Be it very far for kings to give in.
‘Tis not for them to say: “My strength is gone.”
For in His Throne in The Highest Mountain,
There, the hearts of them are held by The Son.

With Thousands of His saints, The King Will Come,
‘Tis as sure as The Rising of The Sun.