Oh, Papa, you stumbled out of the garden
All for a destined love and into time.
Mama, do dreams stroke softer than Truth?
Delicious fruit of the desirous heart,
and the seasons and the cosmos always cyclical,
Swirling to the music of creation.
Your eyes once grasped that sight, but
You both blinked and your sight-- cataracts.
Now, the moments tick by
At the stroke of linearity and the mechanism;
Hands pointing the way to our judgement,
And the broken and lost moments creeping their way along...
Succession upon succession through...
Generation after generation...
Our state from the overture, a magnum opus,
Degenerating, we sons and daughters to the lost,
Progeny of wayward progenitors.
Look, what has become, and do you weep?
So many souls down their thorny paths,
Labyrinthine and futile struggles.
The beast haunting their every step
Giving no quarter to the stumblers.
A lion's roar and a Lamb's song echo the halls!
Your Father is ours, and His love hovers
Ever above.
Wide is that gate, but don't forget the door.
The secret is no secret, knock and it will open!