I sit in the midst of spring found again.
The holy art of cycles to remind us where we’ve been
And where we’re going,
What we’ve reaped and what we’re sowing.
New life emerges and hearts, they swell,
To be renewed since the last leaves fell.
But we know
That tomorrow will come
And some days we just won’t want to run.
But on this journey, we step
In behind the footprints that were left
Before us.
Making way for those behind us.
It’s a pilgrimage,
A moving through being,
Knowing that there’s more than just what we’re seeing.
An unstatic pursuit of perfection,
Redeeming creation.
And faith,
Which is the life that we seek
And thing we hold on to
When the skies seems bleak
And the winters come
And sun’s done shorn
And the soles of our feet become weathered and worn.
But still we step
In perseverance,
In faith that you hear us,
Towards the promise of the promised land.
Communion with the saints and those around us.
Our stories sound the same, just with different voices.
The seasons come and pass
And come and pass
And it seems like nothing’s meant to last.
And it all seems so redundant.
And it all seems so redundant.
But I suppose that’s the point.
