Perennial Light

After every day comes the night. After every night comes the morning. I wait eagerly for the day when, upon waking, I find that the night does not come. There will be perpetual morning, everlasting freshness when the King comes riding on the clouds. His glory will illuminate the new earth and the new heavens. His song will fill my ears and drown out the din of calamity that has so long plagued my aural senses. The import of that moment will not slip past me, dull as I am. To see at last the face of my Savior. To touch the scars of the One who emptied himself. To feel the beat of the heart that stopped that mine may start. To hear the laugh of him who took the weight of the world. To eat with him who makes the rain fall and the tree to bear its fruit. To embrace him and feel my face against his beard. His voice, I almost hear it now. It sets the earth to trembling and stirs the depths of the oceans. I have yet to see my Savior. For this hope I set to work. For this hope I worship him. For hope he has given me. Faith is his daily gift. He works and moves within me with the skill of a shepherd, a carpenter, a potter, and a gardener. He, my King, works in me still in the ways of a servant. He came not to be served, but to serve. To seek and to save was his undertaking. In me, by his grace, that mission has been accomplished. There is no life outside his tender mercy. Denying or forgetting his existence causes me to doubt my own, so intertwined are we. To work, to serve, to be his slave encompasses my aspirations. And yet, no amount of work will make him love me more. He unsparingly poured out himself. His munificent deed was eternally sufficient to secure my adoption into his family. He is real. How can I cling to such a confident statement? Is the evidence incontrovertible? If you must ask you have not felt his love. Do not let pride have its way in you. To break free from doubt one must submit himself to the Way, the Truth, and the Life: Jesus Christ.

An Open Letter to the World

If the world had a facebook or email or even an address and I sent it an informal letter:

Dear World, 

What have you been doing lately? I've heard you are having a few problems. I mean, not that it's any of my business. I'm just concerned for you is all. I don't want to poke my nose into your personal stuff. I have a sinking feeling that something pretty major is going on and you don't want to talk about it; I get that. No one likes to talk about their issues, especially with someone (like me) who doesn't spend much time with you. I'm really sorry about that. I have to ask you to forgive me. In my defense though, it's not like I can just get coffee with you anytime I want. You know how shy I can be and I guess I've just been keeping to myself. Anyway, a lot of people say (this is just what I've heard) that your problems can be solved if people like me start talking to other people. I suppose that's partly true. What do you think? Do you think that all the people living in you could really get past all the junk in their lives if they opened up to each other? It sounds like a great plan. But then I think about all the people I have opened up to. They are still just as bad off as when I started talking to them. Not to mention how I turned out. In fact, my strategy to protect myself is to pull away from people. It's not the best, I know that. At least it keeps my pain where it belongs, with me. Do you see my dilemma? Now that I think about it, it's your dilemma too. I wouldn't want to be you. It must be really hard to be constantly generalized and referred to with all sorts of nasty adjectives attached to your name. You are always "going to hell" or some other place that is not pretty. Some people have high hopes for you. They say that you just keep getting better and better. Technology, and generosity will change your landscape so that you wouldn't even recognize the racist, greedy place that you are now. No pressure, huh? 

     In other news, I'm really trying to look out for you now. I hardly ever use napkins. You're welcome. I feel like it doesn't make a lot of difference though. I'm kind to your inhabitants, mostly. Let me clarify, I'm always kind to them to their face, even when they are trying my patience and taking forever counting out exact change and holding up the line at the grocery store. Not that that happened lately or anything, haha. Behind their backs though, I can be a little gruff. I feel bad about it later, whatever. Maybe you don't even care about them. Since you are such a collective entity its hard to tell your feelings. And let's be honest, you contradict yourself a lot. While we are being honest, how about turning it up for spring this year. Last year was kind of weak. I believe in the sandwich method of putting a criticism between two compliments so... I really like how you are so diverse. I mean really, you do such a good job mixing it up. I don't really understand all the differences in people, but I appreciate their existence. 

     Well, have a good night, or day. I guess it's always both for you. That must be confusing. 

Your onetime friend, 

Aaron

A Short Tale

This is a tale of a lone man. He strolled into towns and cities without anyone noticing. When he came there was no boding or foreshadowing. He just came. When he came it was never raining. It was never raining when he came. The dust was settled and the sky was grey. It was grey but not bleak, cool but not frigid. It's not that no one looked at him, it's just that no one saw him. He walked into a bar and slid into a seat and placed a guitar case next to him. He never turned his face up, never looked out the window. He stared into his hands as if they held something no one else could see. With palms up and eyes down he'd sip at his drink. A few drinks in he'd start to shaping. Shaping that thing in his hands that no one else could see. The more he drank the more he shaped. His fingers worked like a potter's, his hands strained like a blacksmith. Then after five he would stand up. Though there wasn't much up to his standing, the way he hunched. He grabbed his guitar and ambled over to the corner. From the case he pulled an instrument black as his long hair and bearing the scars of abuse and the pitiful remedies of love. He handled it with respect, carefully inspecting the front and back, ensuring it was the same as when he put it away. He rolled up his tattered sleeves and revealed his slim forearms. He squeezed his eyes and kept them shut for the next hour. He strummed and plucked at the beat-up old guitar and made the saddest sounds that a man could make. It was hard to tell what was his voice and what was the sound of the strings so mingled had they become over the years. For an hour he played, but no one was sure what he sang of. Some say it was love lost, and others say it was betrayal of a friend. It seems as if each one in the bar that day heard the pain in his heart from the man in the corner. After his hour he opened his eyes and let out a sigh. No one dropped money in his case, it wasn't a show. No one could speak. They only thought slow, deep thoughts. The only sound was the snap of his case, the creak of his footsteps, and the ring of the bell as the door swung shut behind him. "What was he doin', before he started playing?" a young one asked after a pause. No one answered for a long while. An old man made his way to the lad, laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "He was taking our pain and putting it into a shape. A shape that he could sing away. There's no reason to carry it now. He sung what we could not sing. He felt what we only wished we could feel." He looked out the window to the empty street. "He's gone now, and so is the pain. He took it with him." 

Ode to O. Henry- A short story

     Ms. Winifred spied out the deserted street. Though it was still early afternoon the grey clouds, and the rain they had brought with them, had considerably dimmed the atmosphere. The harsh lighting, however, was easily penetrated by her predatorial eyes. It had probably been years since she had killed, she couldn’t exactly remember her last. Every one of her muscles stiffened and stood at attention, as if at any moment they may be called upon to spring into action. Her ears, though wearied by time, were still keen. She slowly oscillated her sharp-featured face. The only sounds that came to her were the softly pelting rain and some distant traffic. The cold in her feet told her she had been standing at her door too long.

    She knew her path well and set out with purpose. Careful to avoid conspicuity she walked close to the tall fence that ran the length of her lane. Here and there were gates in the fence that led to gardens and courtyards. Five or six gates down from her own she stopped. The McNally’s had unwittingly been part of her various schemes. Their near constant absence and particularly low gate let Winifred move from her street to the adjacent one with wraithlike furtiveness.

     A quick look round and she went over the gate in one smooth motion. She landed on the cobblestones beyond without a sound. The faint trace of a smirk crossed her face. She felt her sinews working instinctively with a powerful drive. Don’t get caught up in it, she thought. There will be enough time to gloat later. She came to the rearmost of the McNally’s property. A break in the hedge brought her into the vacant lot. In the center of the lot was a ruined old house.

     She used to bring her victims to the place late at night. She paused a moment to reminisce. The muffled cries washed over her, filling her with ecstasy. She would take them to the very brink of death and then release them, giving them hope, until that last fatal second. What power! What raw, natural, dark power! To feel her victim’s pulse slow and the very life flow out of them. Yes, she thought, this is what I was born for.

     All these thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant. She lingered no longer. Down Hackney Street across the four-way, here was her destination. A very confusing three-story house. It was opulent, there was no doubting that, but it was decidedly incongruous. It was part Victorian, part cathedral, and part Chinese temple. These inconsistencies seemed to be noticed and celebrated by the owner. For each section of the house was painted a dramatically different color. Among the myriad colors a tarnished gold (if indeed gold could tarnish) made the most frequent recurrence. The passerby who did not consider the house an absolute blight would be forced to agree that it was ostentatious at the least.

     Ms. Winifred shook her head slowly as she came up the path. “Such serious business to be had in such a joke of a house.” She did not bother with the front door, instead she followed the flower beds around to the side. Even the flowers were the same dull gold as the house. Finding the screen door unlocked she pushed it open and continued through the French doors.

     “Ahhh. You’ve arrived my darling.”

     Feeling her presence enough of a reply Ms. Winifred did not answer. He who addressed her was named Guildford. He was portly and grey save for a shock of white hair in the middle of his head. He was extremely self-conscious about it and pawed at it nervously throughout the confabulation.

     “Well, well, Miss Winifred. Please, do join me by the fire.”

     “Ms. Winifred. And I am fine standing,” she replied, glancing around the room. It had the same incongruous nature as the exterior, but here it was chiefly attained through knickknacks and mismatched paintings.

     “Oh, I do wish you would sit. It would make me ever so much more comfortable.”

     “I am not in the habit of making people comfortable, as you well know.”

     “Quite right,” said Guildford narrowing his eyes with an almost sadistic glee. For Guildford was one who took satisfaction in Ms. Winifred’s secrets. That is how they had met some years before. Though Guildford had never been very active he used to ambulate lethargically through the neighborhood. On one such stroll he had stopped to sit in the shade of a tree in the vacant lot. In a few seconds he had dozed off.

     He awoke to a sharp cry cut short. Ms. Winifred was at her sordid work in the ruined house. Spying through the dirty glass he watched. He watched it all. He felt then like he had never felt before, alive.

     Afterward Guildford introduced himself. Taken aback at first, Ms. Winifred soon found that he posed no threat to her. Guildford agreed to keep her secrets, providing he could again watch her at her work.

     For a few years they had this partnership. Guildford feeding off the violence that he was neither physically nor emotionally capable of, and Ms. Winifred receiving an elevated ecstasy knowing she was holding sway over her victim and her audience both.

     But even the macabre grows stale with repetition. Guildford and Ms. Winifred grew apart. Guildford had retired into the gaudy house and could not remember the last time he had left. Ms. Winifred had slowed, but nothing like the quiescent mass before her. They were together now though. Together for one last deadly errand.

     “You are still ever so lovely, my dear,” said Guildford. “Tell me, have you settled for that chump across the street from you? I hope not. He used to admire you so much. But I should not blame him for that.”

     “Your coquetry is wasted on me, as you well know.”

     “If I know so much as you presume I do, then there would be no reason for conversation.”

     “Except for the few details there is no need for con-ver-say-tion.” She said this last word with peculiar emphasis, mocking Guildford’s slow way of speaking.

     “It is good, my dear,” replied Guildford, “that I sit so near the fire. For your words are so very cold. I see your point though. Let us get on to business, or I should say ‘pleasure’”

     “Who?” asked Ms. Winifred still looking around the room. She had but glanced at Guildford once upon arrival.

     “I don’t know his name. I find it’s usually better that way in any case.”

     “You don’t!” Ms. Winifred said forcefully, then calmly continued, “You don’t know what is best. Leave what is best or worst for me to point out.”

     “But of course, my dear,” said Guildford apologetically.

     “Where?”

     “In this very house.”

     “What?” said Ms. Winifred somewhat surprised.

     “Ah yes, my dear. This promises to be the most exhilarating and satisfying experience yet. The owner of this grand house (who you know I serve in official capacity) is flying in our prize from Central America. I do not know why he would go to such expense. I already take care of his more serious matters. But that’s the thing of it. I believe, from what I heard, that he’s being flown here almost entirely for entertainment purposes. Low times these, mighty low times. When one is flown halfway ‘round the world because he can tell a joke. I would tell the master of this estate a joke if I wished, but they are all so low. A joke our target tells the owner of this fine estate in some dirty market and it so endears the rascal to him that he invites him to live here. Low times...” Guildford finished with a murmur.

     A wry smile came onto Ms. Winifred’s face.

     “You are delightfully passionate about this Guildford. I would love to do this for you. Wouldn’t things go badly for you though? You being in the same house?”

     “This is the beauty of it: I am almost completely confined to this chair, and I could surely never make it up the grand staircase to where the fool will be residing. Absolutely no suspicion will fall on me.”

     “Guildford, your body may be dormant, but you mind is keener than it ever was.”

     “Thank you, my dear, thank you. Now you must be off. If anyone were to see you here now, the cloak of stealth would be removed. I shall see you in this room Thursday next.”

     “I shall be here,” said Ms. Winifred and silently stepped out into the drizzling rain.

    

     The week passed quickly and without event. Ms. Winifred had a solemn disquietude about her. This she attributed to her being “rusty.” At the appointed time she went out, following the same path as the previous week. The same quick look about her, and the same dexterous maneuver so surprising for her age. However, upon lighting on the far side of the gate she noticed something was amiss. The McNally’s curtains were open and their sitting room window was ajar. They were home!

     Perched on the window seat was the McNally’s terrier. The whole scheme could be ruined if he barked and alerted the occupants to the intruder. Thinking slow, steady movements would keep the little dog silent, she put out her foot deliberately. Before her foot had met the ground the dog let out the alarm.

     Should she go back over the gate? Should she go on? These thoughts assailed her alternately a thousand times in that moment. No, I must go on. There is only one chance for this. She ran as fast as she could, the dog’s barks following her every bound. She had just made it around the corner of the house when Mrs. McNally opened the door to see what the disturbance was. Ms. Winifred stopped on the far side of the vacant lot to catch her breath.

     She waited until she was sure she was in complete control of her mental faculties before she moved on. She took her time winding through back streets. She came to the back of the contradictory house via the small park behind it. All was quiet.

     She once again pushed through the unlatched screen door.

     “Shh,” was the greeting from Mr. Guildford. He was even more grey than usual and was pawing at the white shock of hair even more nervously. “Come close,” he whispered. Ms. Winifred did.

     “We have a slight, um, disconcertion.”

     Guildford’s “um” disturbed Ms. Winifred. He was never one to be at a loss for words. She wasn’t certain, but he may also have just invented that last one.

     “What do you mean?” she inquired.

     “Dear me,” he said in a very hushed voice, “It seems as if my residence has become the house of nations. Yesterday our ‘friend’ arrived on schedule and as planned. But today, this morning, someone else arrived. A Swiss from the family of Appenzeller. He’s a thorough boor, my dear, and he may get in our way.”

     “Splendid,” said Ms. Winifred, “I flee from one dog only to run into another.”

     “There is some good news,” said Guildford trying to brighten her fallen countenance, “The brute has fallen in with the cook in the master’s absence. They are in the kitchen right now sharing a meat pie. He has been engaged thus all morning. If we go about our business quietly I have every confidence we will be undetected.”

     “Since you are obviously an expert on the hypnotic quality of food I trust it to your judgment.”

     Ignoring the last remark Guildford proceeded to tell her the plan. Their ‘friend’ was upstairs in the east wing. She would unlatch the window of his room and drop him into the courtyard behind the house. From there they would take him to the outbuilding to set about their evil play. When Guildford reached the end of the plan the fire reflected in his eyes seemed to flash up with savage brutality.

     Ms. Winifred took it all in and merely nodded. She walked over to the heavy door that stood open just a few inches and listened. Nothing. She opened the door enough to slip through and it squeaked rather more than she liked. She looked around the massive entryway that was dominated by the grand staircase. Every inch of the staircase was covered in intricate carvings.

     Quickly, she made her way up the first few stairs, but she froze upon hearing a voice. She leaned over to look down the hall. The kitchen door was open and she could hear the cook’s voice. “There you go chap. Much better isn’t it? Get some air moving in here fer ya. I bet it’s a sight colder where’s ya come from than here.”

     Knowing she was still safe Ms. Winifred moved up the stairs and took a right. Her footsteps made no sound. Following the hall she found the described room. Her heart began to race and instinct took control. Her thoughts were her actions, her actions were her thoughts.

     There he was, this creature (for she never allowed her victims to have a personality) from Central America. He was facing toward the window, oblivious to her presence. She took in a deep slow breath. Winifred could smell the country of his origin on him. He was pale yellow and plumose. She had never seen anyone as exotically decked as he was.

     He’s a court jester, she thought. He mimics what he hears and receives applause for it. This one will be particularly gratifying. With this last thought she stole into the room and pushed the door closed behind her. Her prey spun around revealing massive eyes and an even larger nose.

     “Stay quiet and this will be much easier for you,” said Ms. Winifred. He did not respond.

     “I was born for this you know,” she said while slowly closing the distance between them. “And now that I think about it, you were too.” He remained mute and stared at her with unblinking eyes. She continued, “Though you grew up in a country far from here we were meant to come together like this. For you were born and raised to be my prey. And I was bred to be your predator. Still unable to speak? I suppose silence is the wisest course of action for you. Give in to nature and it will be over soon enough.”

     She was circling him now. Unsure of what his silence and statuesque stillness meant, but she fancied she could sense a great deal of fear. Ms. Winifred went to the window and with some difficulty unlatched it. She turned to face her quarry. Every muscle tensed. Her eyes tightened. She was ready to erupt and spring upon him with terrifying force.

     Just as she sprang there was a tremendous crash. A gust of wind had slammed the open window against the side of the house. Her heart stopped and wincing she fell to the ground on all fours. The target took this chance to fly through the open window that Ms. Winifred’s silhouette had momentarily vacated.

     Winifred recovered quickly and leapt after him in time to catch him by the tail. He was heavier than she thought though and his weight pulled them over the sill. Directly beneath the window was a steep roof. Down this they slid fighting the whole way. Ms. Winifred clawing at him and he trying to make an escape squawking in his fear.

     They reached the edge and fell some ten feet into a fountain filled with stagnant water. This stopped his noises and momentarily stopped Ms. Winifred’s terrible blows. Guildford, who had been waiting on a bench near the fountain, started up as quickly as someone of his degeneration could be expected to start. He came to the edge of the fountain in time see Ms. Winifred dragging her prey, knocked unconscious by one of her blows, over the stone lip.

     “We must hurry!” he said frantically, “That crash is sure to...” It was too late. On the far side of the courtyard a door was thrown open. The Swiss came out followed immediately by the cook. They were on the scene in an instant. There was nowhere to flee. Guildford assumed a look of feigned astonishment. As if he were just as surprised to find such an episode. Ms. Winifred let fall her helpless prey with a dreadful thud. She glared at the two onlookers with fierce defiance. The Swiss let out a low growl, but the cook was first to speak.

     “Well, don’t this just beat all? Whataya think the master of this here house would say about this conspiracy,” he paused for a second, very proud of the last word. “A conspiracy's what we got here. The master away and you Mr. Guildford and your little friend here treating his guest like this. It’s downright abombobmni, abombninb, it’s wrong leastways. I guess there’s nothing to be done about it though. Except for you Mr. Guildford,” he cringed at hearing his name, “you’ll be gettin’ half rations tonight, and you’ll be lucky to gets them.” Here the cook raised his voice and yelled, “Get out of here you good for nothing cats!”

     The cats left. One very slowly and the other very quickly, though not before one last look of defiance. The cook picked up the parrot who was coming around now. “Oh good,” he said, “you don’t seem the worse for wear, ‘ceptin’ a few missin’ feathers. And you,” he said addressing the guard dog,” bred in Switzerland for to do the work a doorstop could do better. Let’s clean this feller off and put him back upstairs. Maybe the master will be none the wiser. Then we can get back at that meat pie, which is particularly delicious, if’n I do says so myself.”

Shine Forth as a Beacon

Praise Him all you peoples! Extol His mighty name you nations! The world is His and all that is in it; the earth and its inhabitants. We belong to the Creator and He belongs to us. He is our God, the faithful One. Fall down before Him. Let your knees buckle at the sight of His glory. Unrivaled, incomparable, everlasting; our God reigns on His throne. Turn Your wrath from us, O Lord. Break us not against the rocks of Your anger. The sea is tumultuous and we have lost our way. Sailing toward You we have become lost. Shine forth as a beacon, a guiding light to lead us back to You. You were our delight, let us rejoice in You again. By Your word the raging waves may be stilled. Speak, Lord, comfort us with Your voice. 

A Silent Song of the Night

The light from the streetlamp doesn't make it round the back of my house. 


I'm sitting here not dressed for the cold, but then, I wasn't prepared for your cold heart. Seems I never see it coming and wind up shivering alone in the dark. 


They say you're born without a care in the world, but I've had these scars as long as I can remember, and they'll still be here if this earth should pass away. 


If I could pierce the dark I'd find a way to make everything go back the way before I was. 


There's a lot of excess these days so I'm just trying to get settled what's the right amount of pain. 

Gospel and Your Spouse (A Proposal)

     This could happen beneath the spire of an ancient castle, or beside some gently running brook. It might occur on a park bench or in front of a crackling fire. What is about to be related may come about in any number of places and be proceeded by a multitude of various actions. These places and actions are determined by the localities, traditions, and personalities of the characters. This event has transpired innumerable times since man's creation. The characters in this story, or rather, the prologue to myriad stories, are always the same. One man and one woman. It is the proposal. 

     The words that follow are not borrowed from any real encounter. However, they are felt, if not spoken, in part assuredly, and more probably in great excess, by the players. The scene may be a snow laden cabin, a white sand beach, a moss covered log near a waterfall, it matters not. The real scene is the heart of man. 

     "I... I have something to tell you... something to ask," he says in faltering manner. She knows. She asks what it is anyway with a leaping heart. He looks intently into her questioning eyes. Though he need not look closely. He memorized them long ago. He did it because one night as he lay in bed recounting a pleasant afternoon with a certain young lady he was ashamed and astonished to discover he could not recall the color of her eyes. Three tortuous days passed until his remembrance was made whole by observation. He would steal glances of those eyes when he thought she wasn't looking. Later, when they had grown close, his gaze could often be traced across a busy room to where her clear eyes responded with a soft smile. Could it be those eyes were even more beautiful today. A feat he thought before as impossible. As he had drawn near her, he learned what was behind those eyes; the love, the kindness, the patience. Now, sitting so close he could feel her breathe, the riddle to the clarity and brightness of her eyes was revealed. It was the passion of her heart. That emotive center acted as a furnace that gave her eyes the intensity and luster of diamonds. 

     All of this flashed through his mind in a second. The occurrence of such thoughts was not rare. In fact, with her, every other of his thoughts was similar in nature. Her presence was such that it stimulated seemingly endless creativity in him, and all of the purest, richest sort. It was from this creativity he had endeavored to draw upon and from which he created the document he now pulled from a pocket with less than steady hands. 

     "I wrote you a poem," he said, feeling that was a very poor introduction. A few moments of silence followed while he plumbed the depths of his mind for something dramatic to say, but found his mind quite shallow. No reassuring words did she speak. For though her exterior was one of calm eagerness she was too elated to say anything. She feared to part her lips lest the cry of joy she was hiding in her throat escape and her elation be betrayed. Finding nothing better he continued, "I'll just read it." 

I like to think of life as one big story

From man in all his brokeness, to God in all His glory

A meta-narrative it's called by learned academics

It includes all inventions, books, battles, epidemics

There's a page for everything in history even if it's never printed

It reveals the lives of people at which historians never hinted

But it's more than just a history, it's a book written by His hand

It's the story of a fall, a promise, and redemption planned

It's the story of a triune God who created the whole universe

And how his beloved ones His name soon learned to curse

A novel penned by the providence of the infinite divine

By who's grace I hope that you will soon be mine. 

It's the tale of a mighty Creator, possessing wisdom without measure

The epics of the ancient ones are mere shadows of this treasure

Scarier than any ghost story, sadder than any tragic play

It never grows dull, though angels sing it a thousand times a day

It's a myth, not contrived by imagination, but birthed by truth

It lends to the aged the burning passion of youth

A musical score with more feeling than Beethoven, more depth than Bach

The one that is the root of children's play and philosopher's talk

The moon cries it in her waxing, and whispers it in her waning

It is the innocence of the new creation we are regaining

It is God made man

It is the Gospel!

It's the poem in the rustling branches of the trees

It is the power by which the blind man sees

It's in sunsets and clouds and the smell of fresh cut grass

In the crunch of frozen snow beneath your feet like glass

It leaps about in the flames of a roaring fire

It is the fulfillment of the orphan's desire

It is the glory of the Father, the passion of the Christ

The presence of the Spirit, by which the temple curtain was sliced

The Gospel!

The Gospel!

It is you and I, wretched, alone, and lost

Upon a tempestuous ocean of iniquity we were blown and tossed

Till heaven's gates were loosed, but no deluge would be our bane

A single ray of light broke through, a Lamb come to be slain

In the gap He stood, between us and the wrath of God

And in His righteousness the faithful ones are shod

The Gospel!

The Gospel!

It is pure and simple and bloody

It is grace poured out on the broken and muddy

Having taken on our punishment, having died and been buried

He was gloriously raised, and to His bride was married

For reasons quite beyond me, He has chosen you and I

To be a living, breathing picture of how He came to die

We will have all eternity to revel, sing, and dance

But we are only given this one hour to romance

Perhaps others to this gospel we might pull

By being to this world blood stained wool

I'm not the brightest one, and I'm certainly no sage

But, my darling, I think we are on the same page

I'm not talking about common interests, though that definitely is true

But in this story bigger than the both of us, the lines of my love were written for you

Take my hand, if you will, and join me on this quest

Rather pitiful in solitude, when together at our best

With a love more brilliant than the celestial fires burn

We will work and watch, for our beloved Savior's return