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The Reverend John DeLore
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Mercy
Mercy walks into the room, boils a pot of tea and wraps her hands around the cup. While she waits for it to cool, I try to wrap my mind around her. Mercy leads me to her room. There is dust upon a picture frame. People die and they are born. Who could ever ask for more? Mercy is calling me. And I strain to hear the sound. Mercy's on the line. Mercy is on the line.
Mercy opens up a book. I open up my mouth but nothing good comes out. So I lay my troubles down, and my blessings all pour out. Mercy is calling me. And I strain to hear the sound. Mercy's on the line. Mercy is on the line.
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