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February 1987


the skies were red

crimson borne on tears

a flaming, sky borne pyre

over empty, silent halls

silver where bloody skies subside

silent service

for a world

for a life

for a king


beneath and bright

on rain damp stone

flames entwine with lace

silent on the wall they lie

drop cloth for the God


a living veil replaces

one destroyed


as we denied the Son

the sun itself will praise Him


The Skies were Red
A poem by Peter Rhebergen

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Each New Day A Miracle
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