A Revolution rumbles under the noses of the ignorant.
Silent, but not voiceless.
Gentle, but not weak.
Pacific pandemonium pulses privately
Illegal thoughts fire through the neurons of millions
Banned words are proclaimed fearlessly.

Death is threatened to the revolutionaries.
But they have already been promised life.
"Have no fear" shouts their leader,
"For they cannot **** the soul."
How far will they go to break the mold?
They ask, "For how much was your soul sold?"

The revolt is by those whose souls are free
It is the cure for a universal disease.
The revolution will bring the powerful to their knees
And the enslaved to their release.
They beg: "Join us..."
"Be free."

Thank you Father for your Son
Who started more than we could have begun,
Who finished more than we could have done.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who's by your side to intercede,
so that when we pray we'll be heard indeed.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who died up upon that tree,
so that you could forgive a wretch like me.
Thank you Father for your Son.  

Thank you Father for your Son
Who was by a ****** woman born,
so that we could sing new songs some morn.
Thank you Father for your Son.  

Thank you Father for your Son
Who is God--one and three,
Who walks atop the storm-churned sea.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who's mercy and grace reaches all,
that we may be redeemed from our fall.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who started more than we could have begun,
Who finished more than we could have done.
Thank you Father for your Son.

The theologian's heart sits heavy in his chest.
He has searched, sought, and out-thought the best.
Yet, he has nothing to show for his quest but gray hairs and a book nest.

Scoffers scoff as scoffers do.
Such is expected, for the Way is few.

The theologian needs not a pat on the back.
Nor gold, for he has no lack.

He knows that of making books there is no end,
He has no credit by which to lend.

Still he writes, and still he reads
Still he taps, and still he kneads

Until his heavy heart stops beating.
Now he'll see if his theology was fleeting.
Such it was if not God he's meeting and if not Christ he's greeting.

There He lay in the grave. Nay, but not for long.
The Author of life had been written death.
The light of God engulfed by the darkness of men.
For three days, darkness appeared victorious. But such was an illusion.
There exists no real victory in darkness, no true triumph in evil.
The temporary rule of wrong is always doomed.
And on that day when He arose, 'twas a reminder for those--who three days earlier had delivered blows--that while God's light may grow dim, it cannot be extinguished at the Devil's whim.

The weather is changing.
I am changing.
God is apparent.
You are beautiful.