Dale Lloyd

His world lay in a dreadful state,
his homeland lost in ruins.
No pipers, no musicians—
silenced now all joyful tunes.

No bride or bridegroom in her streets,
the children’s laughter now gone mute.
No candle burning through the night,
no single light left to salute.

The city once so glorious
now smolders in decay.
No one dares to enter her
where once the children played.

A dwelling place for wild beasts,
for bats and crawling things—
the only voice within her now
is the haunted sound the night wind brings.

The temple at the heart of her—
not one stone left in place.
Her glory now reduced to ash
beneath correction’s burning blaze.

Down to Babylon they went,
the captives torn apart,
to languish with their longing
and the ache of exiled hearts.

The prophet’s lamentation echoed
through the darkness of that night,
and in the grief that could be felt
he caught a fleeting light.

“I dare to hope,” he whispered,
“His mercies never end.
His faithful love remains the same
and will redeem again.

Each morning mercy rises new,
and with that mercy, gain.
My soul must grieve the sorrow,
my eyes must weep the pain.

Yet hope is born in morning light—
it will not break or bend.
The mercy of our faithful God
simply knows no end.”

The revelation breaks with dawn
ushering in the truest wealth:
our hope rests here, and nowhere else—
He cannot deny Himself.