Aware of Who Is Reading

Time splays its parchment, still as air
Beneath the plight of human need
The ink of heart and soul spills where
One, its Giver attends, to read

Our penmanship, not misconstrued
Spells to His gaze both hope and fear
As He, so oft misunderstood
Lays page on page beneath our tear

And while before mute, pagan gods
Its seems that multitudes amass
To veil with noise what man applauds
Yet Death, oh, Death will soon surpass

and while it seems many forget
That what they write is read by He
Who Holy, Holy, Holy bled
Redemption once, at Calvary

and while it seems the age of words
Profits a man, if he can spell
Regardless of what under-girds
The hand that writes what tongue won't tell

still, He who places air on air
Is never far or undeterred
But sees the faithful few aware
Of Who is reading every word