Late at night He calls to me
and begs my soul to enter
the vein of creativity
which lies within my center.
For all the world around me sleeps
but I am wide awake.
His presence my attention keeps,
my soul will not forsake.
The words flow freely in again,
an instrument am I.
The spirit guides my gilded pen
and words to paper fly.
And when all's done, His heart revealed,
I scarce can take it in,
that on my head He's placed His seal,
my poor soul, full of sin.
A humble servant I'll remain,
and wait for Your command.
Within my heart Your wisdom's plain.
It gently guides my hand.
Nancy Briscar Martel