The Struggle for Love, the Longing for Homes. So frantic to demonstrate, that our hearts are in good company. While passing weavers, to make residue of our tissue. We look for in a fantasy, our spirits to trap.
With a legend of expectation, a saving source. To broaden our degree, and offer substance to our course. A steadfast tie, a connection at the center. Which may quiet the cry, that our hearts are at war.
With an unadulterated arrangement of eyes, loaded with fire and capable. To dissipate all the untruths, that our spirits aren't lacking. Yet, it's not our simple need, which causes generally fear. It's the pivotal actuality, that our spirits are dead.
Cut off from their Source, in a dark estrangement. Mankind's revile, for its rank rebellion. We simply need our direction, and to compose our own story. So we plunge on adrift, to look for our greatness.
To play craftsman or dream, or symbol or boss. Any so called stratagem, to mitigate us of despondency. Any measure to show, an enduring criticalness. So somebody would know, our one of a kind heavenliness.
For our magnificence's been imperfect, and we need a reclamation. Of spirits curved and scarred, by satisfaction's exception. However, too bad, we will discover, that search hard as we may. There's not one of our sort, who can convey the plate.
Whereupon the weight, of our spirits, has been laid. For who can e'er endure, are its gross obligations unpaid? Such choking out mass, of deformities and ills. Squeezed against the fragile glass, I of self images and wills.
Even more unpleasant to manage is commitment unbound. For with grinder to wear, its lord is suffocated. Underneath an ocean of foul yeast, and turns into the subjugated. To a wanting monster, to adore debased.
For the heart is a tiger, and must have its fill. So it raises a man higher, with a kiss previously. Not deliberately, obviously, does it butchers its godlike object. In any case, of storm power, is this yearning so imperative.
Also, as platform turns, so rapidly to the special stepped area. Our injured pride consumes when our divine beings and offerings flounder. Also, the fire of its anger turns upon its fixation. Tiger crashes out of the feline, to recover presence of mind.
It nibbles and it tears, what it once so venerated. Also, pride does not mind anymore, on the off chance that it executes its bogus ruler. However, upon such destruction, the spirit shouts in dread. For it's messed up its prize, and can't reclaim its blunder.
It asks and it argues, to reestablish what's been lost. However, at end knows it needs, to think about the expense. Of the harm untold, it has left in the wake. For hearts can't be controlled, with a spout or a shake.
No, men's hearts resemble bombs, which so effectively detonate. When the pin is taken out, all previous wrongs will re-load. So the prey turns into the tracker when the tiger assaults.
For he doesn't need her, to perceive what he needs. As he, as well, had put, her up there some unacceptable spot. However, presently steps his foot, upon her disgraced face. To now pound, as his own heart's been squashed.
To daze out her eyes, and to see her lips quieted. For with words inactively expressed, she'd wounded at his spirit. What's more, had left his pride broken, by her decisions so cold. She had not intended to hurt, knew not e' en that he heard.
However, one can't incapacitate, an idea put to word. More terrible than not knowing this, she no longer knew him. Furthermore, her once envisioned joy, demonstrated an invalidated impulse. Goodness, what games and dreams, we play and we assemble.
Upon void fantasies, and dreams unfulfilled. However peculiarly it's the point at which our most noticeably awful feelings of trepidation work out as expected. We can at long last rise above, every one of those old stories we developed. Out of personality and void, out of distress and agony.
At the point when our nerves felt irritated, and our hearts felt excessively vain. 'Cause when the inner self is puffed, it is prepared, as well, to pop. Also, with pinprick is snuffed, similar to a nuisance cursed harvest. So envision significantly more.
At the point when a toxin's infused, directly into its center. Furthermore, its heart is dismissed, yet can you likewise not see. How it needs such a burst, to start to get free. From its self-assimilated revile?
But now feels the issue, of our spirit's separation. Fiercer still with the break, of our pet reassurance. So we stand by and we keep thinking about whether we've missed the genuine significance, Of the alarming thunder.
In our heart's consistent shouting, regardless of whether yearning to go home or lost. Regardless of whether forlorn or lamented, secured distressing winter's ice. We discover little relief, yet we realize we've been made. For the wonder of Spring, some card's still to be played.
Some fabulous tunes still to sing, unspeakable longing. For some mystery, we know. However, can't represent the consuming, repercussions of hardship. Not some simple despairing, nor nostalgic hopeless.
Not the insights of imprudence, but rather a feeling that we're torn. From the early stage root, and headwaters new. However a lot further for sure, from our profound breath. 'Tis a hurt not for products, thankfulness or notoriety.
However, a battle only for air, against choking disgrace. For we're exposed, we know, and with all we devise. Our most defective parts actually show, To an unadulterated arrangement of eyes. Like we're strolling near, with no covering unblemished.
Yet, a flimsy emergency clinic outfit, with wide split up the back. So we shroud our actual face, plan to be what we're definitely not. Work our smudges to eradicate, in case our plans ought to be gotten. Be 't by a companion or by an adversary, we dare not hazard the torment.
Of mortification's blow, on head of our stain, yet rather than help. Torment becomes stronger till, this present life's loneliest distress. Incapacitates the will, and last expectation everything except kicks the bucket. On uncertainty's bed of gloom, while upset heart cries.
That its parcel's excessively out of line, yet outwardly, we play. Through our oblivious psyche, man's aggregate act. That all is well, similar to some settlement, we'd all sworn. To maintain and comply, to shield from the contempt.
Of society's influence, on the off chance that we run with the stream. Rather than endeavoring 'against the tide, we may make enough show. To rescue our pride, we overlook that arrogance. Is the thing that caused all the wreck, through a snake's duplicity.
Furthermore, a couple's off-base conjecture, that was they originally tasted disgrace. And afterward covered up in a nursery, sewing fig leaves as a case. To make sure about their exculpation, yet with sickening dread, they knew. They had wasted the Prize and should escape from the view, of an unadulterated arrangement of eyes.
Ow a similar condition of amiss. Goes through every one of their seed, natural and borne by. Like the thorniest, whose weeds puncture profound. Furthermore, taint each part, while roots tangle and clear, through the brain and the heart.
It derides what we've lost, tortures each faint expectation. To choke and a cost, similar to a noose-fixing rope. All things considered, trust won't be rotted, seething flames yet consume. Starting clues that we're made, for brilliant Eden's return.
This recovery we desire is no apparition's bogus supplication. Be that as it may, as a disheartened wave, covers up in the ocean. It's been hidden on display, large as the entirety of our accounts. Profound as humankind's full situation, and as high as its wonders.
Shrouded in each desire, that we need to get in. To some select alliance, for its kindnesses to win. Hides a draining inclination, disappointed from birth. A craving for a political race, to offer on our value.
Baited by the aroma of a guarantee, to be picked and known. Like the glow of a mother's kiss, offered distinctly to her own. We search tree after tree, for sweet closeness' nectar. From an organic product that is destined to be, our mystery associated.
To expectation's feeding bosom, to life's nectar from the brush. To an undying rest, to a straightway toward home. One to wipe away tears, and mollify the most profound uncertainty. Which continues from most exceedingly terrible feelings of trepidation.
Of our being bolted out, Of a nursery once more. Cast from the unadulterated tree of life, faint recognition of when. Humankind previously entered difficulty, every one of our contentions, rivalry, disarray, and fault.
Discover first reason in destruction, that is attacked our edge. Like the foulest ailment, the most cankerous decay. Developed by gigantic degrees, brought forth by Lucifer's plot. This current story's nothing's assault, nor bygone legends, yet the momentous certainty.
That our hearts are at battle, with an unadulterated arrangement of eyes. Loaded with fire and capable, to disperse all the falsehoods. That our spirits aren't inadequate, and it's not our simple need. Which causes generally fear, yet the pivotal actuality.
That our spirits are dead, cut off from their Source. In a dark estrangement, mankind's revile, for its rank disobedience. But... this is additionally the story, of how those equivalent eyes
The Possessor of Glory looked with adoration and heart cries. On the crown of creation His impression of Self-made His cherished country. The beneficiaries of His abundance, presently broken and lost. All exiled from Garden, and He knew the full expense.
To concede them His absolution had known some time before. He had e'er even made, that first man of yesteryear. However handcrafts in any case His adoration is so solid, and He needed to share. His closeness with a crowd, His youngsters to hold up under.
So with spirits in seizure, from their insubordinate wrongdoing. Not long before their removal, He guaranteed a Seed. One untainted from transgression, who could take its incredible rock. What's more, the heaviness of His family, upon His shoulder.
A Hero of expectation, a safeguarding Source. To augment our extension, and offer substance to our course. A steady tie, a connection at the center. Who might quietness the cry, that our hearts are at war? With an unadulterated arrangement of eyes, brimming with fire and capable.
To dissipate all the falsehoods, that our spirits aren't insufficient. For those eyes are His own, and He'd pay the full expense. His body alone, to liberate our hearts. He's expectation's sustaining bosom, His life's nectar from the brush.
He's our undying rest, He's us straightway toward home. He will wipe away tears and mollify the most profound uncertainty. Which continues from most exceedingly terrible feelings of trepidation, of our being bolted out. Of the Garden once more, projected from unadulterated Tree of Life.
Faint recognition of when humanity previously entered difficulty. Yet, it was on another tree, that sweet closeness' nectar. Was made sure about close when He, became holy Connector. Also, the thistles of our revile were squeezed onto His head.
With not one there to nurture, as the Son of Man drained. At that point the anger for our wrongdoing was consumed as He cried. What's more, the foul revile was broken, when the Son of God kicked the bucket. In any case, passing couldn't keep Him long, nor His g
