Harps And Lyres

Purpose can lose his way twice,

Sorrow can burn a great desire

Ego can fly above the sky,

And watch you burn on your funeral pyre

The numbered days of man are few,

His mundane desires reach higher and higher

But even in dread, fine music we make,

For we are God's own harps and lyres.



Undermined, we let our trying selves down,

Settling for rocks when we can reach the clouds.

For the wonders we are, we quickly forget,

In the deserts of regret, we cry aloud.

The sparkling soul, we enslave to perversion,

Exposing our minds for public hire.

But even in the wilderness, fine music we shall make,

For we are the Almighty's own harps and lyres.



Touch the leper, his unseen wounds,

Offer him the love, he has never had.

Accept the prostitute, heal her insanity,

For who are you to judge the good and the bad?

If love is conditioned, it's power is lost,

The ego will quench it's healing fire

Fear no more, fine music we will make,

For we are the creator's own harps and lyres.



Screamjack