Adrian Plass

Official Website



    What about the wounded?

    What about the lost?

    What about the ones who failed

    To understand the cost?


    What about the broken-hearted

    Puzzled and betrayed

    The ones who hoped and hoped and hoped

    And prayed and prayed and prayed? 


    What about the endless nights 

    And fears that never cease

    The hundred failed Gethsemanes

    The pointless search for peace?  


    What about the ones who hide

    Because they are afraid 

    Of those who will not tolerate

    The way that they are made?


    What about the weary ones

    Who find the going tough

    The desolate Elijahs

    Who have simply had enough?


    What about the disappointed

    Darkened by distress

    The ones who hoped for so much more

    And live with so much less?


    What about the wounded

    Bleeding on the street

    Staring eyes, children’s cries

    The horror and the heat?


    What about the wounded, Lord?


    Days of My Life

    By Adrian Plass

    The sun
    The moon
    The stars
    Hung high in heaven for my delight
    Mysterious gifts
    A mobile that will draw my hands
    My eyes, my life
    Will teach me shape and fill my heart with wonder and with smiling 

    I watch
    But secretly willing
    As my foot rises, moving forward with my weight
    And I realise
    That at last
    I am going to walk

    There is not space
    In this round world
    To fling my hands 
    My heart my body
    They are rockets
    I will fire them to the edges of the universe
    To circle and to race the flying planets 
    In the star-bedazzled cosmos of my spirit

    One road only now
    It must not be the one that I have travelled
    I try, I tried, but walls rise up
    And strong, unyielding voices tell me 
    Onward is the way, you may not stand
    The broad and narrow paths, all choice has vanished with the days
    One road only now
    I sometimes fear what I may find

    Always in the past
    Autumn was the richest time
    But now I stumble in the fallen leaves
    My body and my heart are frail
    I have mislaid the magic 
    And imagination’s power
    Warm confidence that winter’s coldest, darkest hour
    Contains within its heart the hidden fire of Spring