Stand Alone

A job is God’s soft whisper low,

To hearts unsure of how to grow—

A steady stream, a daily bread,

For those whose faith walks just in tread.

For not all hands can shape the skies,

Or trade in dreams where risk still lies.

Some pray for rain but fear the drought,

And faith, in business, wears them out.

To own a trade, to stake your name,

Demands a fire, a stubborn flame.

It calls for trust beyond the known,

To build by faith and stand alone.

But mercy flows in quiet ways,

Through jobs that light the common days—

For God, who sees the breaking soul,

Gives structure, wage, and payroll role.

Not all are called to plant or plow,

Some are kept and held for now.

A boss may sign what Heaven planned—

Provision shaped by unseen hand.

So bless the desk, the task, the shift,

The sacred means, the daily gift.

For while some walk on winds and waves,

Others are graced with safer caves.

And that too is divine decree:

Not all must climb faith’s tallest tree.

A job may be, in all its grace,

God’s gentle arm, God's warm embrace.