Pastors stand beneath the spire, shadowed by the Cross’s reach, Guiding hearts through life’s mire, entrusted with God’s speech. In robes of hope, they lead the flock, toward light’s embrace, Yet even they, against the clock, can stumble in the race.

From pulpit high, they weave the words, threading love’s pure truth, But in their hearts, doubts are stirred, echoes of their youth. Angels clad in mortal guise, their flesh and soul bound tight, Human frailty in their eyes, they too seek the night’s respite.

They bear the weight of human souls, in hands so very frail, Wandering in their own roles, through life’s winding trail. They falter, stumble, trip and fall, beneath the holy text, For pastors, after all, are human, complex and vexed.

In moments quiet, they confess, in whispered prayer’s release, The burden of their own distress, seeking their own peace. For even they, with faith so grand, in sanctity enshrined, Need God’s loving, tender hand, His mercy, vast and kind.

We look to them for light’s guidance, through stormy seas and strife, Yet they too dance the human dance, in the grand waltz of life. Forgiveness flows in river’s course, for every heart, it’s meant, Grace isn’t a finite resource, but a love that’s heaven-sent.

So, when they falter or they sway, remember this refrain, Pastors are but clay, touched by joy and pain. In their frailty, there’s a grace, a truth so deep and raw, God’s love is not a single place, but a journey of finding more.

In humility and reverence, let’s walk this path together, Granting each soul its chance, in God’s grace, to weather. For no one stands above or below, in the gaze of Divine, In forgiveness’s tender glow, we all equally shine.