The waves are beating against the nearest of shores.
Sand protects me from their pull.
The honking of horns is quiet now.
Hills, mountains and the mist block and surround.
Behind us all is Jesus over my shoulder.

American modesty tossed aside.
The people here were never taught to hate their bodies.
They were taught something simple; love.
Something most magazines and beauty models fail to do.
This lesson persists with Jesus over my shoulder.

The rhythm of this city is not unique.
It could be the metropolises of Europe, Asia or America.
The sheer beauty is all its own.
No comparisons exist on planet Earth.
Paradise with Jesus over my shoulder.

This place is not without obvious faults.
The poor are hidden from view with homes built in clusters.
They crowd the sides of every hill.
You cannot help to wonder if they are forgotten.
Either by the people or Jesus over my shoulder.