It can be said that the sharpness of swords
Are only sharpened for bitter ends and the wishes of hungry lords
That armor is formed for the pierce of arrows deep
In the earnest chasms of our heroes keep
That all the jewels are etched from stone
To fill a pocket or pay a loan
This skin I now find myself in;
is the only thing inherently mine.
The folly of man has reveled in shame
To a pursuit of power as if it were tame
That playing with matches and wielding a flame;
Could blot out the breakers of our synthetic little game
When will we find that our path is wrong;
That the fruit of our labor has been to long
The road I now find myself on;
Leads to nowhere.
Now that I have nothing to call my own
And I have been spared the blindness of the path I’m shown
What shall I do?
It is not enough to seek my way
In the bitter drops of the early day
To find a home in remote towns
Where people scurry and sadness drowns
Though this certainly sounds
It will not fulfill.
It is now clear that we are running away
From coldest freedom of our hearts dismay
That through our rummage and plow for meaning
Our pursuit of strength looks a lot like leaning
We cannot find eternal hope in fleeting things
We find our hope, our joy, our life, in Christ.