by: Shirley Satterfield
You have to press through
To touch the hem of His garment,
Through the doubts, the fears,
The jeers of a crowd
That is telling you, you’re are no good,
The people people who stand in your way,
Those who would shake
Your steadfast hope and your stay.
You have to press through
To touch the hem of His robe
On this hostile, horrible globe.