| Isn't it strange?
And a thing to contemplate,
That here in a midnight hour
A figure walks
And will not rest?
Oh, by his homestead
Or in the shadows
Like a ghost
He lingers, because his children need to play
On through the world
on well worn stones.
He walks until the dawn the stars fade away
A grey and oldish man
A suit that minds of the Ancients
Make him a figure
That all men and women here love.
He cannot sleep on his hill now, though
He is among us
As in times before. |
And we who toss
and lie awake long into the night
Breathe deeply
and start to see him among us
Though his head is bowed.
And he thinks on men and kings.
But then the sick cry and how can he sleep?
Too many fight and they know not why.
Too many homes in the black weep.
The transgressions of war
Burn his heart.
He can see the dread that haunts us.
Perhaps he carries on his shoulders
the pain and bitterness of us all?
He can not rest
Until the Spirit Dawn
will come
The Shining Hope
Earth is free!
|