Back and forth, back and forth, life has no end.
The flat-footed trek across weathered street,
Routine, an abyss in which they descend.

How many wandering souls will He meet?
How many eyes wide like moons filled with tears?
How many mouths speak words laced with defeat?

But then there is light, no darkness, no fears.
Bright, blinding, bursting, streaming from the sky.
He soaks up the warmth, missing all these years.

The sky no longer screams its battle cry
As tears roll down its dark and angry face,
The rays of warmth soothe, understanding why.

The man comes to all, and whom He will grace
Will find themselves pulled by His warm embrace.