Poetry for the restiveness

by Richard Cecil Schletty

"All of us, Lord, from the moment we are born, feel within us this disturbing mixture of remoteness and nearness; and in our heritage of sorrow and hope, passed down to us through the ages, there is no yearning more desolate than that which makes us weep with vexation and desire as we stand in the midst of the Presence which hovers above us nameless and impalpable and is indwelling in all things."

– from Hymn of the Universe by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin



Morning Light Stopped

When waking from a layered dream
I rode the forward bow of time
Into a lucid sequence
Which I, not demons, controlled

I was director of an epic film
Cameras rolling on my cue
A legion of actors rising
Against a pine fringed mountain

Whose story was now being told?
That of a nation or one flailing youth?
Was it unbridled passion or unkept promises
That forged these tensile moments?

A majestic panorama
A rousing symphonic overture...

Then it stopped, as I fully woke
Into the normalcy of morning light


She Is Love

To my wife Patricia on Valentines Day 2007

She is love, she is kindness
She is peace in the night
Bring it on, bring it on
Can't wait too long

She has taken all my worries
and sent them far from my sight
Bring it on, bring it on
A feeling strong

Surrounded by the warmth of her arms
Healed by her mystical charms
She takes the hurt out of being on fire
She is Love

She is hope, she is joy
She is a river of dreams
She is purpose, she is promise
she tempers all my extremes

I was lost in the dark
a vessel searching for light
Her glowing smile is my new ark
A new horizon in sight

Surrounded by the warmth of her arms
Healed by her mystical charms
She takes the hurt out of being on fire
She is Love

I will rise up to her like a dove
sent skyward into pure space
I see all beauty, all harmony
enfolded in her embrace

Those near death she'll vitalize
Her being none can eclipse
Her every breath I memorize
Promise of life from her lips

Surrounded by the warmth of her arms
Healed by her mystical charms
She takes the hurt out of being on fire
She is Love

I adapted the above lyrics to a Steiner-Anselm soundtrack. This is one of 12 tracks from our album "Can't Let Go".


Hungry for Heaven

In this vast container of half-light
dwells a soul in process,
weeping, laughing, earthbound,
hungry for heaven.

I seem to be an insignificant mite
in the vast sweep of time and space.
Am I so bold as to think
that death cannot erase me?

Lift the haze from limited sight,
Pull the plugs from impacted ears.
Break through the stiff wall of my heart.
Reveal yourself. Abide with me.

Rescue me from wrong relationships.
Pour fire into my arteries.
Make me burn with passion.
Consume my body as you make me whole.

Melt my pride, my clutching,
my lust, my vengeance.
I will obey your commandments
for love, not for fear.

I kneel, lock-kneed, begging for release
from heavy debts and broken promises.
Discomfort in my bones
exceeded only by the pain of not knowing.

Where or who or why are you?
When will I take leave of my senselessness?
How will I make my road straight?
How will I fly to you without falling?

Must I climb the greatest mountain
to glimpse your shining radiance?
Must I swim the bluest ocean
to fathom your magnificence?

Must I reach deep inside myself
to embrace your unapproachable intimacy?
Find you in inspired pages or hard sermons?
Or simply walk with you in the olive grove?

Hear me as I vibrate.
Know me as I pulse.
Perceive the odor of my being,
the inflammation in my mind.

Suddenly, bathed by a spectrum
streaming through rosette window.
Blessed by a Mother who carries no lance
except the one that pierced her Son.

Touched again by a foreigner's sacrifice.
Made complete by new blood,
nourished by new bread
Made joyous by new song.

Your love is in those I touch:
In my neighbor, in my enemy,
in those on the fringe, in those on the edge,
in those wrapped in self, in those unraveling.

You are in the infant caressed,
in the student being understood,
in the stranger receiving my last coin.
You are the Master asking for my all.

Providers needing grain, replenished.
Mourners seeking consolation, comforted.
Children gone astray, led back.
Those who were silenced, again singing.

Now wind inflates my breast,
water begins cleansing.
I am floating, warm, calm,
on a current of unconditional love.

Where there was protest is now thanks
for the opening of my eyes
to the life and love around me.
I thank you for the treasure that is already mine.

It was never mine to question.
It was never yours to answer.
We are enmeshed in a symphony of waves,
all past, present and future encircling.

There is no Father who yearns like you.
No Son who teaches so well.
No Spirit that excites so wildly.
No Transcendence so involved with lesser mites.

I have heeded your generous invitation
to the mystery of creation.
I am no longer hungry for heaven.
You have poured heaven on me.

Draft 1 of lyrics for a joint project with David Gómez Sanz
January 29, 2007


Rising Spring

Unknit your brow
Spring is now
From cold disdain
To life regained

Trees enduring
Soil alluring
A tonic scent
From Eden's vent

Winter stinging
Turns to singing
Vernal joy
Uncorks the coy

Earth warming
Creatures swarming
Happy growth
Lifts us both!

Let's all dance
Around the plants
Let's all sing
Of rising spring



People rushing,
like sled drivers mushing
o'er cold hard terrain,
at a pace that's insane.

Playing the game,
looking for fame,
adventure or lust,
whatever's a must.

Rushing, acquiring,
without deep inquiring.
Their gain is their loss.
A gray albatross.


Good Sport

Love is a game we play on a dare,
a game we win when we play fair.


Take Time for God

"Take time for God and He'll take time for you,"
my mother used to say.

Never enough time! Taking way too long!
I'm sorry, your time is up!

The speed of traffic. The growth of our hair.
The progress of our children.
Credit card interest, compounded daily.

Time spent in a bad situation
from which we are unable to escape.

Time for lunch. Time for supper.
Time to praise God for all that
has been, is now, and will be.

...I fell, silently, forever, in a dream.
Pitched slightly forward, dropping down
the edge of an infinitely high cloud,
an infinitely deep chasm. Diffuse light.
No beginning. No end...

Wake me, or I shall go mad!

There, better.

The sense of time brings sanity to our being.
Our being brings sanity to God.



Miseries, the handmaidens of our broken dreams
Siblings of our misfortunes
Mistresses of grief and anger
Cleaving us with shards and daggers

Miseries so blind as to see no hope
So brazen as to win no favor
So ugly as to lose all contests
Silent as a transcendent God

Miseries love the company of fallen angels
The gatherings of other Miseries
Begetting more pain and sorrow
Driving nails through our knees

Oh, if we could only vanquish Miseries
and gain admittance to The Garden


Tempest Fugit

I rolled up my sleeves,
ready for work.

Decided instead to visit
my mother.

I raked her leaves.
She overfed me.

I rested on her couch
until the stuffedness subsided.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek
and drove on back to work.

And as I drove I thought,

Storms of emotions that plagued me
in my youth have all but vanished.
I question less, cry less,
want less of the tangible
and more of the intangible.
No longer frantic
in my pursuit of commodities,
I pilot my mind on a gently rolling sea,
headed for a shore unseen,
confident that God will guide.

And so it goes.
The tempest flees
when sanguinity arrives.


Prime Time

Tuned to the woes
of actors in clothes,
egregious devotion
to specious emotion
in broadcast dramatics
makes insomniatics
of millions of creatures
who cherish the features
of prime time TV.



Few hours of repose
and a barge load of woes,
God's trawling the oceans
for wayward emotions.

All kinds of perceptions.
Distinct dispositions.
Unique dreams and sighs.
Diverse wails and cries.

This deity's angling.
His love's disentangling
the human condition,
dark mare of perdition.

His oars keep on churning
through wavelets of yearning.
Hope wrapped 'round despair,
Does God really care?


The Europeanization of Bridget

Lazy, sonorous moans of a Segovian bull,
grazing a field of ancient boulders and grass,
gracing the soul of a twenty-something-old daughter,
enjoying the radiance of a painterly Old World sky,
this Sunday, in the countryside of central Spain.

Mournful, resonating clangs of a West Side church bell,
sending forth a middle-aged father in a vapor,
pondering afternoon runs of his kids in junk-heap cars,
hoping to catch a few rays of late afternoon haze,
this Sunday, in the innercity of the American Midwest.




Drifting off
in the mid-afternoon.
So tired.
Must rest my eyes.
Delicious sleep...


A thunderbolt awakening,
a raucous clap,
eyes open wide,
beholding a room full
of resounding nowness.


A constant stream of
sensory hooks binds me to
the notion that I exist
now and forever.
My fancy soars as
I imagine myself
a rich entrepreneur,
a powerful ruler,
a vital movie star,
or a spirit being.


The awful truth is that,
despite my emollients,
herbs, pimple cream
and athletic strains,
decomposition happens.


So heaves the tide of
this soul awash
in joy and sorrow,
accord and discord,
faith and despair,
destined to leave this orb


Silent One

The One who knows me best is the One who is silent.

Ah, the silence of God!
It has troubled the philosopher
as much as it has the neighborhood roofer
who fell off the roof and was never the same.

I spat on the ground
and rubbed the spittle into the dirt with my toes,
bright sunlight illuminating.

Jesus used such a mud paste to cure a blind man,
directly intervening in the life of a soul,
affecting the decisions of countless believers thereafter,
far less silent than his Father,
about as intrusive as that Spirit-Thing.

But I didn't use my mud paste for anything.
I didn't know how to effect a miracle with mud.
I was content to simply gaze upon the earth
as the summer sun caressed my being.

And I shouted, "My, how good this sensory impression feels!"

And God was listening.
And God agreed
as he quietly kept watching
the lathe of creation turn itself.


Words for a Friend

Each day I try to renew my spirit
despite the shackles of time,
obligations and physical weariness.

I trudge through the mud,
knee deep in confusion.

But every so often I find
a small encampment
where an ageless, timeless Voyageur
offers me a mug of nourishment
and whispers to me
words of affirmation.

That is enough for me.

I pick up the heavy pack once again
and resume my long trek
to the Summit of Fulfillment.


The Gifts

In suffering seclusion
you write about yourself.
It's all about delusion,
the things you do in stealth.

Some folks have adored you
for prowess you have shown,
while others have abhorred you
for discord you have sown.

This pounding in your brain,
this longing for a clue,
at last brings you to saying
that pride you must eschew.

Consider with a grain of salt
the words the naysayers say.
Try instead to loose the vault
that keeps The Gifts at bay.

Reach for higher energy.
Get a life, have a clue.
Teach that love is synergy.
Make it flow, do the do.

A temporal solution
that generates good health:
forsaking retribution,
you now seek love's true wealth.


Wavelets of Time

Born years ago to a family,
fashioned from stardust and slime.
Spirits of nature have carried me
over the wavelets of time.

This I know, having seen and heard,
tasted, touched, absorbed
a million sense impressions.
Life is good, life is hard,
life is wild, life is worth the living.


Filet of Soul

The devil is no longer
a welcome guest.
I'm bound and most determined
to excise him from my breast.

The rancid, smelly vapor,
the awful stench of death,
the devil has for too long been
a wicked, deadly pest.


In the Shadow of the Day

In the shadow of the day
I heard you calling lovingly.
Without trembling, without fright,
filled my being with your light.

Stale words and heavy hours
forgotten in the scent of flowers.
The sweetest taste upon my tongue
no longer will be unsung.

Simple melody of rain
wash away our every pain.
Click and clatter of our bones
healed by harmonic tones.

I reach through the window
to the clouds laying low.
I fly through the night
on your wings of flight
that lead me back on home
where I kiss what I have known.


The Row

Only two hours of sleep
and a barge load of flesh,
yet, I know I will sail
through this day with a smile.

Cause I talked to a seeker
and talked to my God
last night,
in the wake of a row.

A man was cast off
due to unwitting deeds.
His concern for his victim
exceeded his pain.

Hypocrisy, pretense?
I still do not know!

But I know I must talk
to a man who serves others
aggressively smiling,
hands folded in prayer.

A strange mix we have
in this sea of sojourners:
hope wrapped in despair,
lightly breaded, like fish.


Choir Boy

I don't hardly ever
run any more.

My potential wasted.
My girth ever expanding.

Blubber call!
Get the grappling hook!

He's a waddlin'
down Page Street,

the wide-bodied, lacrimal,
non-distillate, donut-poppin’
choir boy.


Joy of a Slush Puddle

I feel the steady, inaudible hum of Old Sol
arcing low across the morning sky,
above the innercityscape,
burning away the permafrost.

I step with greater pleasure,
my body less cocoonish, less curled
against the cold, fresh air
that now wafts with a faint hint
of the organic scent of Spring thaw.

I step with greater abandon
down the middle of the street,
along great glacial valleys carved by
the wheels of motorized vehicles
that all Winter have struggled, slipped
and protested.

Suddenly, my right foot lands in a slush puddle.
Not once, but twice!
Cold foot, wet foot, up to the laces.

But I am not angry.

There is joy today in this slush puddle.


Dominus Proboscis

His large nose
senses no mystical realm,
no god,
no hope,
no aroma of love.

With dulled senses
he stumbles
'cross small divides,
ne'er seizing the day,
ne'er reaching for stars.

He cannot adjust
his lifelong habits
to forestall disaster.
The assailant can surely
snatch away all.

His attitude stinks.
His muscles are atrophied.
His mind is anemic.
He is unable and unwilling
to embrace neighbors.

He is an automaton
who spins out his days
in grief,
in despair,

He is an easy mark,
a sitting duck,
to be bagged and diced,
skewered and fried,
consumed and regurgitated.

Lord, help the man!

Does a mother weep?
Does a beggar sleep?
Is the child frail
from a lack of ale?

Are your nails too long
to play this song?
Do the wicked win
or do they lose with Satan?

Music © 2007 Ed Zamorano,
Lyrics © 2006 Richard Schletty,


Spirit Painting

I am living in my body for this brief period of time.
Each day, with varying intensity, I ask myself, "What should I do?"

A feather falls silently on the stone walkway.
A bird chirps, delivering an unintelligible but beautiful lyric.
I stand apart from a kingdom I can not yet know.

While there is steadiness and strength in these hands,
While there is vision and resolve in the chemistry of my brain,
I should paint a picture of Spirit.

I will try to see with my third eye.



A child's dewy-eyed generosity
has turned to blind self-absorption.

The child no longer cares about others.
What happened?

Was it economic deprivation?
A lack of fine reading? The popular media?

Advancing age? A loss of faith?
Mayflies on the windshield? High-cholesterol food?

Antidepressant drugs? Our caste system?
Blows to the head? Blows to the ego?

He allows the world to continue to take
its thoroughly eccentric and degraded course.

Rather than remedy world stupidity or injustice,
He vacuously watches the stinkin' ball game.

Where has the selfless child gone?
Who will repair the hole in his soul?



The more engaged you are with life,
the less you'll have to sleep.
Don't be afraid to make mistakes.
Life is a gamble
but I'll place high bets
on you being a winner.
Go, Smurf, go! Rock the planet.


The Worker

I want to scream,
just give it up,
but pay is fair
so I put up.


Evolution of a Dreamer

After a twenty-minute nap in the car and on the boulevard, I awoke (within the dream) and realized that reality can be painted well if one is true to the balance of light and color. I beheld the shimmering pixels.

I regarded the land bridge impassible and decided to go way around the west end of the swollen, white lakes. A horde of bicyclists made a mad dash across the impassible bridge. Some made it, but a big man fell in the water. In his campsite, drying himself off, the big man muttered,"This is how I chose to spend my Sunday."

"My heart is closing," Bridget said, smiling, having just received a very fine overcoat from a very engaging and gracious foreigner. I shook the young man's hand. Our clasp was strong and sustained. There was spontaneous hope and joy.

"Iodine gives me twenty minutes of protection," the daughter said to her mother who responded, "I should have had it so easy in my day!" Whereupon the mother pulled off a very large piece of toenail and tossed it onto the locker room floor.

The stuff of dreams. Providing clues to nothing, or everything. A glimpse of heaven, where our bodies and minds are given free range. The play areas of disembodied souls. Accidental doors to parallel universes. Bizarre, disconnected feelings and sense impressions. Good for a brief laugh or a prolonged cry.


Forever, Love

Enraptured by your smiling eyes,
Your aura bathed my naked soul.
That very moment, prayers fulfilled:
I'd found the love of my sweet dreams.

Who can analyze the magic?
Who's the architect so wise?
The conjurer who saw the promise
Of our long and blest communion?

Faith and hope and love sustain.
The vow we made inviolate.
The dividends of being true
More precious than a cache of gold.

The fruit you bore has blossomed forth.
Precious children nurtured well.
With modest means, you build our home.
Selflessly fulfilling needs.

The thought of you is so compelling
Forget the work, let's break away.
A ride, a walk, a talk, a rest,
A chance to say, "Forever, love."


Penitential Rite

In a darkened mirror a shadowy hulk,
spectacular, large and frightening,
suddenly supplants my waking reflection.

This oblique projection of a nascent being
suffuses me with self-awareness
and asks me why have I failed to thrive.

Shoulders weak, waist bulging,
ears waxing, eyes burning,
I explain that I'm enervated by exigencies.

The specter waves its hand in disgust
and fades away, leaving behind
the usual stuff in the mirror.

Behold now a penitent man,
rubbing together chafed hands,
heir to an undisciplined intellect.

A soul skipping across waters,
afraid to dive, fearful of flight,
skipping, forever skipping.


Telling God to Mary

2. "Tell us how your faith is similar to and different than when you were in high school."

My Catholic faith was solidly infused into me at an early age through the efforts of my mother who is a devout Catholic rooted in Maronite (Lebanese) Christian traditions. As such, she has had the benefit of Eastern and Western values contributing to her life of faith. My father was a convert to Catholicism (when he married my mother) but he was not effusive at all about his beliefs. The School Sisters of Notre Dame — at St. Matthew's Grade School and St. Agnes High School — were very rigorous in their transmission of Catholic values. Also contributing to my spiritual education were the parish priests of my home parish and my high school, as well as certain relatives and family friends who set very good examples of Christian faith (in both the strength of their beliefs and the expression of their faith through good works). With this background, I became very good at imitating the qualities of Christ at an early age. I remember being very mystified by some of the deeper "truths" of my Catholic faith, such as the omnipresent, eternal nature of God and the teachings about the Resurrection. These truths of the faith were very near and dear to me. But I would say I operated at the level of imitation and fear more than at the level of appreciation through scholarship (discursive knowledge) or infusion of the Holy Spirit (affective knowledge). This a very complex question and I can only say that my faith as a 51-year-old adult is in some ways very much like it was in high school, but in many ways has grown and acquired new facets. I have had many moments of doubt, especially during hard economic times or disappointments in my business enterprises. But I have also kept my faith alive and well through regular attendance at Mass, by sending my children to Catholic schools (K through college), and by answering religion class interviews such as this.

3. "How would you describe God today?"

I would describe God as did Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the famous French priest-philosopher. God is the Omega point — the perfection of a universe born in a state of entropy (disorder) but evolving from base matter to unifying spirit. The more scientists study matter, the more they come to a realization that the most elementary particles may be pure energy. God is a pervasive force of light, goodness and organization that struggles against the powers of darkness and sin. Even though the evolution of mankind toward a perfect state of being is not yet fulfilled, somehow the energy of the Unifying Principle imbues all space and all time. Perhaps the universe is cyclical. Perhaps God is a Master Architect who created all things seen and unseen, but how are we to know for sure? It is like an ant knowing the fullness of the human experience — an impossibility. Likewise, mortal humans can never know the fullness of the God State. Many claim to know — through revelations of all sorts, through near-death experiences, via faith traditions, etc. God has been characterized as a supreme being and also as a triune entity (Father, Son, Holy Spirit). I believe that God the Father intervened many times during human history, most notably in the Person of Jesus Christ. Jesus was not just an excellent prophet. This man was too full of grace, wisdom and miracles to have been a product of mere human nurturing. Christ was indeed the God-Man. He appeared at a critical time in human history and redirected the minds and hearts of countless individuals. The Holy Spirit followed on the heels of Jesus and is the guiding force that has continued to lead people to paths of righteousness throughout history. I studied the phenomenon of the Holy Spirit as I designed a mural for Holy Spirit Parish. I discovered that the Holy Spirit can be a bit of a "problem" for the institutional Church at times. Some mystics or pneumatics (pneuma=spirit) jumped beyond the bounds of official Church teaching, only to be later embraced by the Church. Sometimes, demonic possession has masqueraded as the Spirit. Sometimes, people have medical conditions like a constricted heart artery that may contribute to their visions or "ecstasy". But who can truly judge the experiences of individuals? Each of us comes to an appreciation of a higher order, a supreme intellect, or a spirit of love in our own time and in our own way. We yearn for grace, for peace, for wellness. We pray to be delivered from the ravages of sin and selfishness. God is everywhere — in our own being and in the beings that surround us. God is in all things — animate and inanimate objects. Wassily Kandinsky, an abstract artist, claimed to "feel" the spirit dwelling within inanimate objects — a spirit which begged for attention ("Draw me, please!"). In summary, I can only describe God as the highest order of self-knowledge, creativity and love.


Versicle for the Masses

Behold whimsy's servants
swinging between
obsessions, detachments,
the meaty, the lean

Snagged in the netting
of multitudes plugging,
lifting, sweating,
clutching, snubbing

Well acclimated
to keeping light buried
The world's half-sedated
Excuses are varied

Some cite their diet
Some racked by fright
Must cure disquiet
Center what's right



Certainty has been elusive.
Webs of hearsay inconclusive.
Now we need to stop the heaving.
Find the right path for achieving.

Has the anchor disappeared?
Have the clouds of myst'ry cleared?
Journeys will come to fruition
by the light of intuition.

Art is bread for those who have it.
Bred by will and force of habit.
What's the use of all this rowing?
What's the payload that we're towing?

God is gracious and all-seeing,
bathes our senses in well-being,
takes us to a sacred place
to lift a song of praise and grace.

Prayerful, care-filled tonic waves
raising souls up from their graves.
Greatest stories, ancient lores.
washing over troubled shores.

Thanks to Jack, Alexandra, Warren and Shannon
for inspiration and suggested edits


Fathers Day 2008

Up at 9:30
To church at St. Mary's
with Mom and four of seven kids

Fr. George's three-men-died joke
The third man's coffin wish:
That friends say, "Look, he's moving!"

To the farmers market
Green onions a dollar a bunch
Annual flowers seven for ten

A walk through Mears Park
A bird shit on my shoulder
Foam in the water

Back home, a lunch
of fried eggs and greens
with buttered and garlic salted bread

A call from Bridget in Spain
A nice afternoon nap
Aroused by a gift of chocolate

A load of free compost
Carried a 100 pound boulder 80 feet
A walk through a poor neighborhood

The old Serbian Hall
A woman's shelter with guard rails
Homes, cars, children, stone walls, blossoms, trash

Picked up Anne from the soccer field
Made the decision for gyros
Twenty dollars with a 20% off coupon

The key would not turn
in the Dodge Caravan ignition
Almost stranded, then grace

Back home, a monster cookie
Laughing at Adam Sandler
Two delicious wheat beers

Life was good today
Must now turn the page to Monday
when Papa will dig in again


Bright Yellow

I eat a banana
in warm sunlight
A midsummer moment
That feels so right

Bright yellow!
Bright yellow!

An oblong fruit
A golden sight
A bite fantastic
Downed with delight

Bright yellow!
Bright yellow!

It's quite appealing
Noon or night
It keeps your stomach
Fairly quiet

Bright yellow!
Bright yellow!


You're the One

A song outpoured when love was young
Your inmost beauty on my tongue
You and I, we breathe as one
Whispered prayers for dreams to come

You're the one. You're my wife
You're the one. You bring life
This I pray every hour of the day
That our dreams will find their way

Flowers grow in colors bright
Along a path of rocks and light
In Kodachrome or shades of gray
Youthful dreams will come to play

You're the one! All I've ever known
You're the one! Tending what we've sown
This I pray every hour of the day
That our dreams will find their way


Mighty Love

Mighty love, mighty love,
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love

I wanna live my life in the Lord
Wanna see His love outpoured
Gotta put to rest this puffery
Get small so He can work through me

Fancy clothes don't make me rich
Gonna weave a new wrap, stitch by stitch
My Lord's in the room! Yah, He's the key
The way to the womb of eternity

Some folks mount the hill of kings
Some folks gather gold n' things
I'm lifted up by a pure white Dove
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love
Mighty love, mighty love
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love

Lose myself to find my way
Shape n' color this lump of clay
Get a grip on anger, fear and guilt
Break the bigness I have built

God, help me win this Devil fight
Hold me in Your bosom tight
I'm praying hard all day long
Simple n' sure as cricket song

Some folks mount the hill of kings
Some folks gather gold n' things
I'm lifted up by a pure white Dove
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love
Mighty love, mighty love
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love

I know that I can't take it with
Who can cleave to a crumbling cliff?
Daily chores are tough enough
Don't need the weight of fluff n' stuff

Some folks mount the hill of kings
Some folks gather gold n' things
I'm lifted up by a pure white Dove
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love
Mighty love, mighty love
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love
Mighty love, mighty love
I'm praisin' God for His mighty love


Word Splay

Dreadful nightmare
Brain gets stiffer
Cannot cipher
Prayers that differ

Head on fire
Glory be
Seized by calm

Signs and wonders
Laughter, wails
Man-made riddles
Reason fails



God alone should be adored.
Idolatry must be abhorred.

Word made flesh, heard and seen!
By His love we are redeemed!

The Holy Spirit helps us rise
Above our emptiness and sighs.