When is it O.K. to question, and to wonder,
to think about the things that have since gone under?
The wind blows south, then a touch east,
who knows what will put the mind at ease.
A whisper, a cry a shudder, a tale?
My heart grows weary hoping in a veil.
Underneath such disguises, many seek solace,
but my heart finds no peace in a burnt out forrest.
The ashes fall. The smoke, it lingers.
Leaving harsh bruises and scabs for fingers.
These hands, they have felt their share of pain,
so I only call on one sure name.
He comes and he heals, much further then men,
the hands of my Lord were pierced and then: Amen!
He rose, he rises, and forever he will do,
what no mere man could ever undo.
His heart is kind, and his mercy unending.
Surely, surely, his touch will mark the ending.
Sorrow and spite and anger too,
the depth of his brow will surely undo.
In the name of His spirit I will find rest,
hoping in nothing but the love in His chest.