Somewhere in my mind's many rooms,
I hear a sound I dimly recognize--
Faint and ghostly, not quite clear--
A sound more haunting than piercing,
So distant yet so familiar to my ear:
'Tis the echo of a song I didn't sing.

I'm haunted by the echoes in my mind,
The echoes of a lullaby left unsung.

I can almost recall the melody,
I can almost speak the words,
The tune is nearly mine to hum:
Yet to sing this lullaby I am denied--
The very thought has left me numb--
By this song and my guilt am I decried.

I despair of hearing that accusing sound,

The Floodwaters have not yet come,
But clouds gather overhead:
Outside the ark all may perish,
Salvation is found in that great ship.
Many tarry in the warm balmy sun--
Scarcely a cloud has accumulated--
They laugh at the foolish old man
Who is entrusted with steering
This great barge, the liferaft:
Drought conditions have long prevailed.

Who is He,
Who do we say He Is?
The question confronts us,
And we must answer.

Do we follow the teachings
Of Marcion, with his canon
Of edited texts and missing
Epistles, who knew that God
Would not deign to become man,
Nor could the Word be made
Flesh to dwell among us?

Who is He?
We cannot ignore this question,
It stares us in the face,
We must say Who He Is.

To be the Master's doppelganger,
Mistaken time and again for each
Other, when together you might
Appear as brothers, even twins.
You share neither Father nor
Mother--cousins perhaps?--
But looks are common between
You, that much you have.
It's been of help to Him before,
He's escaped many tight places, passing
Through hostile crowds on your
Account: they didn't want to grab you.
Distinguishing you is difficult for
A stranger, though it's not hard to teach
A friend--beware that terrible night
When a betrayer is found among your friends.

I once knew a blind man who had great faith
In his seeing eye dog's infallible guidance:
He walks when she pulls him along
And stops when he feels her slacken and slow,
He follows with trust wherever she treads.
What faith he places in her judgment,
And how greatly does he trust her!

Our enemies press upon us,
Accusers and despisers--
They say we're too judgmental, too intolerant--
Though they've never taken much time,
Nor exerted any effort to understand
Why we think and believe the way we do.

"Your beliefs are so unfair" they cry,
Sophists and relativists all--
"Any morality which holds sins to account
Is simply too rigid, too old and stale"--
they crucify and cast sharp stones,
And tell us we're the unloving ones.

Our foes persecute, even pursue, us,
Mobs and armies alike--
Crying to spill out our blood,
Reveling in the self-pity which kills mercy,

A scandal is sought in our ranks,
The Enemy desires a reason for his minions
To renew their persecutions of the Faith,
Rarely does he look in vain for willing accomplices:
There are many men who are cruel,
Who are callous, many who torture and murder--
They love not their fellow men.
In one age, they persecute by cross or sword,
In another by disenfranchisement and loss of honor,
Often it is accompanied by rampant despoiling--
Plundering our earthly treasures, pillaging our homes,
At times with subjugation and oppression,
Whether by crown, minaret, or the hammer and sickle--

Dark rumors surface in whispers which
Escape the lips of of the self-styled "street informants,"
A scandal once hidden is now unearthed.
It's been taken by the gutter press and used:
In their hands, it is little more than a cudgel,
Meant to batter, to bludgeon their target.
Soon the mainstream press discovers the secret,
And in their hands it becomes a sword unsheathed,
Swung wildly, still it can be used to smite,
Though emboldened by this weapon they overplay
Their seemingly unstoppable hand--they swing at too
Much--and so themselves are exposed.

Of Truth in all its beauty I am a seeker,
And of knowledge, understanding, and wisdom--
Each of these gifts teach me to judge with equity,
To treat others as being equal to myself.

To each his fair share I pledge to give,
Let me not be known for cheating and stealing,
Nor for taking what is not rightly mine to take--
I will demand nothing I've not earned.

To him who has no voice I lend mine,
For those who have nothing I'll lend my arms--
But I'll not do this at the rich man's expense either:
For he too must be accorded his rights.

Moved by careless action,
Spurred to headlong hast,
Many act without forethought,
They rush to their lives' ends.

Tis better to look judiciously,
And then consider taking the leap,
Caution never fails to protect
Those who plan well ahead.

In a life of hectic activity,
With never a moment's pause--
One of relentless motion--
When will you stop to rest?

It is wise to long remember,
Even as all others forget:
Providence is slow, imperceptible,
But the devil works in haste.