Every eye, shall they not preach Jesus
when Thou ridest in on cloud
canst it not be proven
in every knowing mind?
Or is even our king of kings
told only by believing tongues?
A victim of sad chance on tragic Earth
Songs of praise
shall fall upwards out of the valleys
while moonless dawnlight flickers,
while summer morns yawn beyond the sway
The Lord is in the boardroom
drawing plans for thee
not in the money chamber
but the quiet nestle of the faint heart
our faith is but a babe, a matchbook miracle
Thinkest thou, faith matters not
that God makest not good sense?
Let us reason, then, evil twin:
If everything were logic-ruled
then would He not need to shout
from rooftop perches and shake the skies
pleading thus, I AM!
(Is that not the end of logic, then?)
Real truth sans our Lord, the CHRIST
empty, vanquished without him
His proof is one life changed profoundly
ascending securely the somber loft of faith