There is a place we do not speak
Of when we’re lost and weary, weak
But angels meet us sometimes there
To walk us back from the cold bleak.
There is a cool and rain soaked shore
Where some of us have been before
And found a tender Father there
Where tides of love bring rest from war.
There is a deep and quiet lake-
Faith born in highlands of heartache-
Fed by springs of the Spirit where
the thirsty drink and sleeping wake.
There is for each of us a tomb
With very little breathing room.
We feel alone though Christ is there
To show us death is glory’s womb.
“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. If anyone serves me, he must follow me; and where I am, there will my servant be also. If anyone serves me, the Father will honor him.” – Jesus of Nazareth
John 12: 24-26 (ESV)