If only i know how he feels,
If only i know what he thinks.
Here at the footstool i'll kneel;
Praying, "Help me Lord, I'm at my brink..."
At the brink of the cliff
Where pointed rocks lay beneath,
Like spears it would penetrate,
How am i to breathe?
Not knowing if these rocks may evolve
Into a cushion of thornless roses;
The centre at which butterflies revolve,
As in imaginary realisations of romantic proses.
Nothing can i do but wonder;
Wondering if rocks would break to reveal roses
Wondering if butterflies will emerge in their graceful poses
Wondering if pointed rocks would replace my proses
Sitting in my room i pray,
"Lord, help me to hang onto this cliff
Guard my heart and make it Yours
Push me over if it is Your will
For then i know, what awaits me is real."