By Frederick Blanchard
My hope is not to lay in grass plush and green,
Or touch a rainbow that glistens with dew,
Not to gather the greatest harvest of earth,
Or to be honored at some coming up debut.
My hope is not on the calculations of man,
Or his feeble attempts of scientific discovery,
Not in the searching through billions of stars,
Or in the ancient fossils found through archeology.
My hope is built on the actions of one long ago,
Israel’s Shepherd, the Lamb of God, the coming King,
On the Corner Stone, the Rock that the builders rejected,
The bridge that Christ built and anthems that angels sing.