Desperate

He rises before us on the immutable white horse of time

He makes prime the path to tread with provisions and irrefutable signs

Yet we wander as if we haven't a place to lie

We draw constellations above where they needn't be at all

In our pride we are ever short, still He breathes to grow his pines so tall

Ever flowing water to drink, our faces fall

Open once again your lips, great Love, that I may hear the fire of your call