"Until you come home..."

Instrument of Grace

Your telephone knows and tells you it is time
Mine knows nothing never tells me anything
But thinking of you I feel this poem rhyme
And hope you will tell my telephone to ring
It will only waken when you tell it to

This squatting black slab-like unglamorous thing
Inertly waits here for a signal from you
It knows no tunes no tricks does not dance nor sing
Knows but one bright ring but one right thing to do
When you call it as an instrument of grace

Until you come home when we come face to face

+Steven Curtis Lance



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