Words are not what they describe;
They float by on a bed of air.
And, if they praise or sharply jibe,
They’re not about to lay truth bare.

The truth’s as silent as a rock
And knows the passage up ahead:
Each pothole, bump and stumbling block
Shouts down the sum of what’s been said.

But words live on the earthly plane,
And that’s enough to get things straight.
So let their pleasure ease your pain
And stem the tide of sorry fate.

There’s not a trouble, woe or plight
That words of healing can’t put right.

Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

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