The giant’s ruminations could once demand
Salvation, the order of the universe in hand.
Now, all His awe and glory’s come to naught
And man cries madly, distraught.
In black and white, His word and song is made,
And in this darkened night will never fade.
Who are you to say we must submit?
Who are we to give our spirit and quit?
Great Lords, and Pope, alike, have written what men think,
So who am I to tell you when to sup and drink?
Millions upon millions, the critics ponder fate by wit,
But hasn’t it all been said, hasn’t it been writ?
I tell you no certainty, give you only proof,
You must read those great volumes to which so many are aloof.
I sing praises like as David, a song that Solomon would want,
Of everlasting truth, without a philosophic taunt.
Salvation is not my message, repentance not my ploy;
I wish to give you knowledge: teach your mind it’s not a toy!
There is no great illusion of the means of life on Earth,
There is no puzzling mystery in death and life and birth.
Whether God is at your side, or rejected wholly through,
The only one to chose your fate is overwhelmingly, singly, you.
Gloriously glorified, stained no more with sin,
To live a life of Glory, is glory given Him.
Whether purpose given, or purpose thrown aside,
Whether admit he’s risen, or deny he did abide;
Travel the less-trampled track—the path less trodden down,
For the destination matter less when the road is filled with crowns.