Desolate Fruitless is this life, why should I linger?
The Pain, memories and mission, they flicker in the wind;
is this mirage or nightmare? . . . it all looks the same
as I spin through illusion and truth, love and hate.
I'd leave right now, but some might follow;
from the masses I've obscured the Path,
and now it's as drifting sand also for me.

Dry, oh how dry is my voice;
cry, why should I cry?
this was my choice. . .
As my feet slip, and weariness
sets in, I yet hear His voice -
and He calls me friend.

In shame I sigh, this can not be;
I've done so poorly in the eyes of men.
Laughs! Oh how He laughs -
at their judgement, as His
eyes pierce me through, then
unveil the wisdom and love
that makes man appear so narrow.

I reach for my Staff,
made not by the hands of men -
seeing It not, I reach,
ferverntly once more.
Then there He is -
to give back my hope and vitality
providing me with sustenance,
to make my eyes glow anew.

GLORY! Oh glory be to my God!
Praise Him in worship all the day long!

Thank You dear Lord,
again You have saved -
a wretch on this earth,
awaiting the grave. . .