God’s poems are not finger-stabbed to tiny screens,
hurtful, unkind, sent unseen, abbreviated and unpunctuated,
short and shorthanded, words landed without care or thought.
He does not swipe to left or right, or judge by wealth, or dress, or sight.
Despite the shabby staining sin, He counts it treasure, concealed within,
and infinitely patient, crafts His hidden Word, ‘til all...
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