Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you
I know I’m not where you are
Though you know I’d rather be
Doesn’t matter that you’re far
All that matters is you see
I have things that I must do
That are keeping me from you
Hurts me I won’t hear the words
That you’ll utter when you do
Say it as you say it best
For the ears that hear you speak
May your audience be blest
And the blessing reach who seek
Friday comes and Friday goes
As it burns away my woes
May the sweetest sermon free
Me from all my vanity.
There, in the western sky, is a cloud
Now it’s hiding the sun, now it shows it again;
Up above is another and it’s crying out loud:
Just some powdered snow and the rest is rain.
It’s the story of life that we breathe everyday,
Breaking hearts every minute by the words that we say;
As the nation gets dunked in the madness of March,
I’ll just sit here waiting for the flowers of May.
There, to the west, where the sun climbs high
There’s a cloud in the east that’s about to cry:
Just some powdered snow and the rest is rain
To a sap like me who feels my pain.
The circle of humility is small
And only those who cannot see it, enter,
For such an entry makes the humble fall
Into a spot where circle is as center.
You cannot then become it overnight,
Or over weeks, or even over months
Like mirror that reflects a mirror sight
And on, till all reflections come at once.
To mock and shun the virtue is a vice;
To give it up an even greater flaw;
Embrace it till you make it your device
And practice like you want to make it law.
We’ll be upon this journey till we see
There is no circle of humility.
Good is all I feel
I don’t think I’ll die
Do what I desire
As the days go by
Say whatever words
See whatever sights
Hear whatever tales
Tasting all delights
How I love to dance
To the tune of joy
Mirth is my religion
Passion is my toy
Seconds roll to minute
Minutes roll to hour
Hours to the day
Until I climb the tower
Lonely up above
Here upon my bed
Satin feels like bramble
Tearing through my head
Every blink’s a year
Every breath’s a storm
Every burning tear
Fails to keep me warm
Busy, busy, busy
That’s all I was to me
Busy, busy, busy
Is all I’ll ever be
How pure the object of my love
That makes my hapless self envy
A mist of floating cloud above
And down in meadow swaying tree.
How sweet the object of my praise
That makes my wretched self envy
A spider in its webby maze
And pigeon nested peacefully.
How blest the object of my song
That makes my sorry self envy
A frazzled rug that runs along
That patch of Garden eye can’t see.