Watkins Poetry

Enemies? No, Enemy

2024

Many wrongs will come my way, in fourscore years and ten.
Some natural, and who can blame? The rest from fellowmen.

But just who are my enemies? In truth, there's only one.
Not fellow man, but fallen wraith—though once was fellow son.

Behind each wrong received from man there lurks a flaxen cord.
But look behind their eyes as well, you’ll see our blessed Lord.

You’ve intruded, in a way, on private tutoring
Two masters teaching them to yield, one devil and one King.

You’ve observed their lost control through your own mote-filled eyes.
So hold your tongue, forgive and love. And don’t think yourself wise.

Others do the same for you when you are weak and mean.
Contention is the devil’s sport. Leave judgment to the King.

He Met a Leper

2024

He met a leper
Felt their rot and smelled their reek
Until they were not

“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want.
Wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable.
Perhaps thou shalt say: 'I will stay my hand.'
Whosoever doeth this hath no interest in the kingdom of God.
They are Man’s.
Remember the worth of souls is great.
For behold, are we not all beggars?”

Sometimes I Am

2024

Sometimes I am a leper. Things falling all apart.
An outcast and a lost cause. A sickness in my heart.

Sometimes I am a blind man. I just can’t see ahead.
No hope of sight, just darkness. Reaching as I tread.

Sometimes I am a lamed man. No movement in my feet.
I’m stagnant while the others walk up and down the street.

Sometimes I am a deaf man. I cannot hear a sound.
I cannot hear the music. Just silence all around.

Sometimes I am a dumb mute. My mouth won’t make the words.
So much inside but what comes out are incoherent slurs.

Sometimes I am possessed and seized. The influences legion.
I hurt myself and those around, immune to pleading reason.

Sometimes I am a dead man. Dead to what is right.
That side of me now in a tomb, wrapped and out of sight.

Sometimes I am a storm inside. Emotions tempest-tossed.
Buried in the waves and winds, fearing all is lost.

Sometimes I am in prison. A slave to metal bars.
My hopes and dreams all shackled down. Surrounded by cruel guards.

Sometimes I am “an hungred”. My soul not satisfied.
One of the five thousand guests, hoping to abide.

Sometimes I am a withered hand. A tight and anxious mess.
A twisted, gnarled, useless thing unfit to reach and bless.

Sometimes I am a bloody mess. My “issue” always near.
Disruptive and embarrassing. A life of constant fear.

Sometimes I am run out of wine. Consumed as fast as poured.
My best, I offer to the fray, who still complain for more.

Sometimes I am a fisherman, whose nets are bare again.
With empty pockets, heading home, a failure among men.

Sometimes I am encircled by those with stones to throw.
My faults and weakness widely known, I wait for the first blow.

Sometimes I am a publican. A traitor to my kin.
Ashamed, but not uncomfortable, in lavishness of sin.

Sometimes I am attacked by one whose calling is to lead.
My ear cleaved off when I refuse to hear his new decree.

But I have made a covenant, so…

Other times a hand shoots out, to cover wounded ear.
To still the sword, and heal the rift. Restore a way to hear.

Other times I heed His call, I come and follow Him.
Disciple now, not publican. My wealth now peace within.

Other times He comes to protect me from the stones.
Forgives my faults, rebukes my foes, until we are alone.

Other times my catch of fish is more than nets can hold.
My meager efforts multiplied, a fortune when they’re sold.

Other times my wine is the hero of the feast.
So much! The best they’ve ever had! Praise I deserve the least.

Other times my reach of faith makes whole the very thing,
That bled me dry so many years, my hidden suffering.

Other times my withered clench releases—stretches out.
And I can be His hand again—lift others out of doubt.

Other times I feast upon the fishes and the loaves.
My spirit fills with warm content, so grateful that I chose.

Other times His servant comes to open prison’s door.
That’s it! Nothing fancy. A chance to try once more.

Other times, a peaceful still replaces fearful sea.
The storm rebuked by Architect, who times things perfectly.

Other times I’m raised to life, by my friend, my Lord.
Loved ones help peel back my bonds, I leave my tomb once more.

Other times His voice breaks through, and banishes my demons.
Fit for swine, but not His son—an end to this dark season.

Other times His healing finger rests upon my tongue,
To loose the words inside of me—speak joy to old and young.

Other times the melodies of life ring in my ears.
A mountain wind, a crashing wave, the laugh of someone dear.

Other times my legs are strong, I stand, I walk, I run.
On His errand. On His path. An agent of the Son.

Other times my sight is clear. My vision far and wide.
He shows the things I ask to see—the truth not His to hide.

And other times, my leprous rot and solitude are mended.
And I return to thank the Carpenter—now King ascended.

These things all happened long ago, for people who believed.
But they can also happen for more Latter souls like me.
A cov’nant is a lifeline, allows me to repent.
To change and try again is what “repent” has always meant.

The Scrollard's Prayer

2024

Oh app, on my smartphone,
Hallowed be thy endless scroll.
Thy kingdom here,
My will disappeared,
Oh personal slot machine.

Give me this moment,
My hit of dope.
And forgive my attempt to focus.
After all, how else would I have seen this hilarious meme?

Lead me not into novel thoughts,
But drown me in candy.
For thine is the kingdom of fools,
The power of addiction,
And the vain glory of “influence”
...for now.

Filthy Water

2024

Myopic man looked out from his standing place of stone,
and left the rod to plunge into the river and the foam.

It excited him to make a splash, to tread amidst the churn,
to live a life of speed and change, to bend around each turn.

Currents carried him along, down least resistant paths.
Never climbing, always new, and best of all—was fast.

At times he’d climb the foreign shores, with thought to check the rod.
But bare, exposed, and shivering, he’d dive back to his cause.

Eventually he passed away, away from steady land.
And even then, each island showed ex-swimmers, rod in hand.

But not for him, he’d grown accustomed to this swirling fray.
The uphill walk held no appeal, that simple narrow way.

Until that fateful day when he reached the lowest place.
The stagnant pool where currents, waves, and rapids stop their race.

With land far gone, and water calm, he now saw all the filth.
The rank, abhorrent, stinking pool—the kingdom he had built.

He sank down, and filthy water burned inside his chest.
Stains within and stains without, no ground on which to rest.

He’s still there, though eons passed, still drowning in the pool.
What’s left for him to do but curse the times he’d been a fool?

He’d tasted living waters, he’d feasted at the tree.
He’d seen the darkness yield and his spirit had been free.

And then he’d left it all behind, he’d double-crossed his homage.
He’d sold it for a shorter ride, a rotten mess of pottage.

He’d spurned the holy hand and wrist, the call to stand on water,
To leave his filthy prison and progress toward the Father.

A Sphere For You

2023

Child, I’ve created a sphere for you,
Of earth and air, water and plants.
You will spend a short time on that sphere to learn how to progress here.

Each moment there you will spend within a second sphere,
This is one that you will create—not of water and stone,
But of influence.

I will give you innocence in youth so that you expand your sphere freely.
New friends, new interests, new skills, new dreams.
You’ll make room for them all.

But as you grow, you will become more cautious with your sphere.
After all, expanding it is an uncomfortable, messy, and confusing process
(It’s just that the young don’t mind so much).

Things are clear to the young. Life has a way of fogging up meanings.
So, as you grow I will give you duty. A role, a family, a call.
With one hand you’ll wipe away the fog, and with the other you’ll perform your duties.
Duties force you to expand your sphere—even if not as quickly as before.

But I won’t always show such a heavy hand. After all, it is your sphere!
You’ll need to learn to let duty fade back into love. A love of expanding your sphere.
To lean into difficulties. To welcome all. To seek opportunities.
To be still on the inside and engaged on the outside.

If you do, then you’ll find peace in the discomfort, meaning in the mess, and confidence in the confusion.

If you don’t, then a celestial life is not for you.
An exalted life is one of expansion and growth, universes and families, responsibilities and glory.

A comfortable life is what awaits the terrestrial and telestial.
Their spheres will be rigid, stagnant, hollow, and comfortable.

So go child, enter my sphere and begin your own.

Your Name Will Be Eve

2022

We sit in our favorite place. She lets me play with her hair. Her flowing physical hair.
“Will my hair be like that?“
The thought is almost as familiar as the setting.

I look into her perfect eyes, windows to her proven spirit. That spirit glows within her skin and her bones.
I feel Her love and confidence.
“Could my spirit ever be so strong and true and kind and good?”
The thought is almost as familiar as the sight.

Her voice is solid and clear, gentle and mighty.
“Your name will be Eve.”
The first mother of all who will live in our new world? Me?

I’ve heard the plan many times. Mortality. Veil. Justice. Proving. Savior. Change. Growth.
Poor Lucifer, he couldn’t see. He will be my devil.
Oh Jehovah, just like Father. He will be my King.
And noble Michael. He will be my Adam.

“Tell me again about you and Father in mortality?”
Those stories, her perfect recollection. Her children there. Her worries and sorrow. Her patience and joy.
How they lived in faith together. Inherited glory together. Built a kingdom together.
So familiar to me now.

Her counsel before it is my time to go:
“My daughter, wisdom and courage have long been your gifts. You will see and act. Your actions will exalt us all, together.”

I am ready.

Is There No Other Way?

2022

Leave the garden? But the fruit is always ripe, the nights always warm, the animals all kind.
And yet, something is missing. Isn’t life more than just comfort?
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

A coat? Of skins? A knife? Blood? Gore? But those beasts have always been our dear friends.
And yet, these coats are a gift from Father. Hasn’t He always worn coverings?
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

Alone in this world with Lucifer? But he is a devil now and filled with damning vengeance.
And yet, Mother and Father and Jehovah are not really gone. Isn’t presence deeper than sight?
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

An altar? Of stone? But the rocks cut my hands and the weight is too much.
And yet, don’t we want to speak with Father? Surrender, then hear His voice?
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

A field? A plow? Sweat? Blisters? But this grain isn’t sweet, and this work is so slow.
And yet, the fruit trees are now bare. And our bellies cry for food.
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

Argument? Hurt? Frustration? But we never acted this way before—is this really “meet”?
And yet, later we apologize and love each other more deeply than before.
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

It’s time for the child to come? Out of where? Why do I hurt so badly? But I’m not ready, and the cost is so much.
And yet, Mother of All Living. Sweet Cain now here—smiling in my arms.
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

Seth hungry again? Abel wants to be held? Cain can’t play by himself? But it all falls on me to provide.
And yet, Mother of All Living. Adam is busy as well—missing us while he works.
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

Division? Death? Wickedness? But these are my posterity, and I am their mother.
And yet, there is also much good. Much that is bitter and much that is sweet.
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

White hair? Weathered skin? A new spirit world to organize? But we’ve worked so hard in this place—our loved ones are all here.
And yet, I am strong. I am capable. I am not alone. There is a plan.
Change must come before growth.
“Is there no other way?”
No. I knew it then and I know it now.
“This is the way, walk ye in it.”

A Tabernacle in the Wilderness

2021

In wilderness long we each wandered
Alone and away from past life
With goal to find land full of promise
Far back from the edge of the knife

Those first days were marked by His presence
Breaking chains and parting the sea
Sending food from above when entreated
And water from rock when was cleaved

But time began passing more slowly

That Promised Land so out of reach

Just sand and a stagnant tomorrow

Alone in the desert heat

Then day when we found one another
Two friends that soon became more
A decision to make tabernacle
A whole where just halves were before

My fabric of previous living
The cloth of who you had been
We brought all we had to that sealing
The cov’nant of stitching begin

Though never in life is completed

This tent we are trying to make
Is room for Him, Holy of Holies
And refuge from Eden’s dark snake

The work done within, sacrificial
To give, and through giving, receive.
Our grisly mess sprinkled on altar
An imperfect cry of belief

Our Lord is aware of our journey
No hewn stone requireth He
Just sticks and a soft linen cov’ring
To go where He listeth us be

While holy it is in its nature
Inconvenient it is, by design
And the pitching and knitting and cleaning?
A taste of the work of divine

The heavens protect our creation
A cloud from the day’s harshest sun
Or fire’s bright light, as a crown in the night
All darkness around is undone

Someday, we will enter our Canaan
And two perfect beings become
Where dusty and worn tabernacle
Is given a glorious home

But joy is not locked in a soil
The reward of a journey’s end
That love is embroidered in canvas
That we take the time to mend

Little Black Drop

2020

A fellow did a wrong today and I was there to see.
The consequences rippled out, all dark and oily.
An unsolicited addition to my hurried walk,
Upon my arm there fell a black and stinking little drop.

Anger boiled up inside, I spun to make it known,
That justice would be taken now, no mercy would be shown.
And there we stood, while back and forth the insults and the ire,
We tossed about and wallowed in, like hogs within their mire.

We coated selves in rotten slop, befitting of our kind.
We had ignored the little thoughts that first had come to mind:
It’s just a little drop on me, why not just wipe away,
From body and from thought and mind, and go enjoy the day?

Instead we squealed till voice grew hoarse, then tromped in separate ways.
Our only alm to fellow men, some mud prints and some gray.

Eye Rocks

2020

Sweet Callie Kitty, was naturally pretty,
And new in the schoolyard that day
With long golden hair, and beautiful stare,
She sought out the others to play

She gasped as they came, and her cheeks turned to flame
She stifled the shock in her face
Their pink whiskered scalps were as bald as the alps
Their left eyes had rocks in their place

One of the litter, with eye rock a’glitter
And voice like a bird on the run,
Said, “I love your dress, love that brand, it’s the best!”
And blah blah and "Hey girl!" and "Hun!"

This went on, of course, these canned compliments forced
Until Callie finally said,
With voice in a whine, “and you too look divine!”
“I love what you’ve done to your head!”

Like steam from a valve, a sigh rose from the crowd,
Relieved to have been justified.
Not many days hence, and she too lost all sense
To follow the pipe of the pied.

Poor Callie Kitty, eye hole slightly gritty
But all of her ducks in a row
To flatter next guest till they too join the rest
Be Ponzi in sad puppet show.

To the Moles and Bats

2020

Just who exactly are you
‘Neath quillage of the world?
When inner vessel is laid bare
What record there is told?

Whose wages chime your pocket?
How thick your flaxen cord?
Is strait or strange the road you’re on?
From darkness? Or toward?

When looking in your own eyes,
How quick to look away?
When night has come and you lie still
How proud of the passed day?

For we are like the craftsman
Whose hours are, with tools,
Engraved upon his masterpiece
According to this rule:

Each stroke, both true and blunder
Upon the ingot wrought
Will change, in e’en the smallest part,
The value of the lot

Value, after all, is why
we chose this mortal time
To work a plow and sweat a brow
And hidden knowledge find

Not wealth, with fame and comfort,
For those things hold no worth
Behind the gilded sleeping Baal
Is only simple earth

Which some day may just mark you
Too late you’ll cast aside
Your idols to the moles and bats
With which you’ll wish to hide

Accept this plain reminder
Which warps if not in use
Improve the shining moment now
Avoid the rooftop’s noose

A lifetime to make perfect
Or close as you can come
A tribute to your Father’s plan
A gift made for His Son

Include two open handles
To lift to holier sphere
And latticework of honesty
And pounding out of fear

Carve plain accreditation
To hands that guided you
And ciphered-in acknowledgment
For tutelage granted few

May your marks in the metal,
Be wisdom and be love,
May your life’s work reflect and shine
A smile from above.

Two Serpents and the Man Between

2019

His folly damned him long before
That fiery dying day;
Rebellion had sunk to his core
The devil’s bitter wage.

His neck of iron obstinance
His brow of moulded brass.
Akin, yet full of difference,
To what he would let pass.

So when the serpents cornered him
He did not feel surprise
He opened himself up to them
And welcomed all their guise.

Exhilarating fire was
What washed throughout his frame.
His ears becoming deafened to
The clarions of pain.

Hurriedly he gathered others
Of his poisoned plight
To bolster his delusion that
They would end up all right.

Some came to join his reveling 
Some came warning to not.
But rather look upon some thing
To heal their so-called rot.

They said a brazen serpent had been
Placed upon a staff.
A symbol of both life and health,
Now raised on their behalf.

An idle curiosity
Until the fateful name
Of Moses, was the source announced,
From whence the promise came.

“From Moses?” cried they, “The old fool!”
“Of course we should have guessed!
The self-proclaimed deliverer
Who started this vain quest.

“Away from homes and precious things
To find some promised land,
While only place not sand out here
Is ruled by giant man.

“We should have known he’d want to come
And take away our fun,
And guilt us into following
His rules and to him run.”

Refusing to give up on them,
The messengers began
Extending hands, repeating back
The plainness of the plan.

“All that you need to do is look—
Immediately you’ll find
A healing balm begin to soothe
The fire in your mind.”

“What’s this?” cried out our ‘tagonist
“You’ve bite marks of your own!”
And to the others pointed out
Their fading scars with scorn.

“You see?” he said triumphantly
“They’re no better than you, 
Why cower to their frenzied call
Which they claim to be true?

“The living draft from yonder snakes
Still flows in their veins too.
Yet in denial they proclaim
And tempt you to their rouse.

“All are bitten, yet we are not
Suffering in pain.
But looking at some lifeless sham
Will chain you up again.

“This venom is a milder sort,
It won’t have long effect.
And how could looking change a thing?
Why join you to their sect?

“If you decide to turn and look
What does that say of you?
No better than a common ass,
A mindless sheep or two!”

With that he looked up with a snort
To hear what they would say.
The others too, who were not quite 
So sure which was the way.

With brow that was now furrowed from
This callow twisted speech,
And tear of pity welling up
To run across his cheek,

A messenger, with head held high,
Said, “Brother, that’s not true.
We once believed as you do now, 
That same obstructed view.

“But hearken when I tell you that 
When it’s no longer new,
This poison that you venerate
Will be the death of you.

“You’ve seen my scars and yet your master
Whispers you his lies.
And hides a truth so subtly
That you don’t realize.

“My wounds have healed since those dark days
When they were stark and fresh.
But I’ve been there, that hole you’re in,
Where conscience finds no rest.

“So trust me when I say to you,
The things you feel will change.
What’s new and pleasing to you now
Will turn to blistering pain.

“Your limbs will lose ability,
To take you from this place.
The ‘leventh hour pass away,
An endless night to face.

“You’ll try in vain to twist about
That stiffened neck of iron,
But liquid justice hold you there,
Your soul and body burn.”

Then with a kind inviting smile
He turned to face the rest,
“I did not know for sure that day,
I had just hope at best.

“But I let that hope work in me
To swell within my breast
And gradually it dawned on me,
The lie Satan had dressed:

“I had been bitten by a snake!
I had a dire need
Of healing—now! Immediate!—
A Savior with to plead.

“So up I went and though first steps
Were awkward in display
Discomfort too, but pressing on,
The tense unease gave way.

“The nagging jeer within my mind,
‘How can one look change you?’
Seemed less important, as my walk
Brought new things into view.

“I saw a host of bitten Saints,
Some staggering, some not,
Each helping fellow victims of
This world’s relentless slaught.

“The eyes of all the people there
Were fixed with joy and love,
With faces shining, hearts aglow,
On what was fixed above.

“And then I saw it glittering,
A figure on a cross,
The brazen symbol of rebirth,
A promise for this dross.

“My trauma had begun to heal
The moment I resolved
To stand upon my own two feet 
For my bite, seek absolve.

“But now, eyes fixed upon the staff,
I felt a sudden change,
The fire in me was replaced
With fire all the same.

“Not wicked, burning, lusting for
Some natural carnal thing,
But burning holy gratitude,
A longing for my King.

“My life now has a noble cause
A purpose far beyond
The gathering of comforts which
In time will all be gone.

“So if you want to find renew
Your life and fate to save
We’ve come back to this haunted place
To help you find the way.”

With that each of those poisoned few
With groan and pain arose
And followed out the messengers
To leave their deadly foes.

All but the one, who still could not
Accept the cutting truth
Who’d rather stay and wallow in
His pride and sin uncouth.

Two serpents and the man between
The choice he failed to make
He chose the lesser of the two
The dark and slith’ring fake.

While outside stands the gleaming source
Of hope in fallen world
The shining beacon risen up
The banner now unfurled.

Whispered by a God

2019

Important thoughts, rich with meaning
Subtle beyond words
Of worlds and purpose, choices, time
Tragedy and scope.

Each a sacred fleeting promise
Of a noble truth
A prize to claim, to seize upon
Whispered by a God.

The challenge then, the mighty quest
Itself a subtle thing
To capture, to give shape and form
To put in words the thing.

To do this, or to even try
Before the practiced hand
Of Satan lifts it gently ‘way
And places in its stead

A sampling from his smorgasbord
Of empty hollow things
So flashy, funny, popular
A barb of muted sting

A shadow, cold and pitiful
The fruit of fallen man
Designed to banish and replace
What holy might have been.

The Temple is a Holy Place

2019

The temple is a holy place—
Brings us close to heaven
Like Adam’s altar long ago,
After they left Eden.

The temple is a vital place
Where we should often go,
Like Israel’s camp who had to use
A tent to make it so.

The temple is a royal place,
The house of our great King
Like one from time of Solomon
Filled with the richest things.

The temple is a special place
Which means so much to me,
Like one where Jesus taught and cleansed
And learned to make us free.

Mercy of Christ

2019

Mercy, that unseen power of love,
Pris’ner of the law but part thereof
Her hands restrained, feet bidden to stay
Wrapped in chains of justice, the needful way
Waiting for deliv’rance, the rightful way.

Jesus, not yet with power to save—
Law required first He free that slave.
So, from the garden and the cross won
Key to loose her shackles, bid her come.
Mercy, the companion of the Son.

Now stands a Savior, power to heal.
Hands, with perfect scars and grace to wield.
And we are left with freedom to choose
The prodigal’s husk or widow’s cruse
To share mercy’s balm, His gift to use.

Meek the Lamb

2019

Meek the lamb of common pasture,
Trusting and relying on
Ram and ewe and gentle master,
Proud to be their little one.
At their call, content to follow,
Meek the lamb who can revere.

As a Boy in old Judea,
Learning of His lot to be.
As a Man, by Jew and Roman,
Called to bleed upon the tree.
Trusting, drank the cup as given
Now a Savior, always near.

Voice of darkness, growing louder,
Clamoring for us to hear.
But the still voice of our Master
Leads us to a knowledge clear.
Simple faith will always triumph
Over darkness, over fear.

Plain, the choice left to be answered,
Open gate to narrow path.
Just as Moses’ brazen standard,
Start of “all the Father hath.”
Meekness, that most bless’d surrender,
Meek the Lamb who loves us dear.

That Holy Journey

2019

The day, which for them, seemed so distant at first,
When birth, and a Savior, end Israel’s search
Now coming with haste while they must plod along,
With only a donkey’s rough bray for their song.
And tearful hosannas are sung evermore
For that journey to welcome the Heavenly Lord.

A call from the Father, an errand of joy,
A part in the veil to go herald the Boy.
For He who had stood with them, Almighty King,
Is now a poor Babe, so they gladly take wing.
And tearful hosannas are sung evermore
For that journey to welcome the Heavenly Lord.

That star which rewarded three lifetimes of wait,
Now guiding the men with their wise kingly gait
Who, scripture and prophecy searching had found,
The sign of their Master, their gifts to help crown.
And tearful hosannas are sung evermore
For that journey to welcome the Heavenly Lord.

The life of abandon, of sin and of pain,
Or life where not known is the God who was slain
Is saved by the power of mercy and love
With the choice to follow our Brother above.
And tearful hosannas are sung evermore
For that journey to welcome the Heavenly Lord.

My Title of Liberty

2012

In memory of my family, that all too soon will be.
Of parents dear who've led the way, and love me perfectly.

Of future calls, to serve our King, I must be ready for.
Of people many, if I'm true, with blessings laid in store.

Of work to do, right here and now, of which I must be part.
Of promptings from the Holy Ghost I must have in my heart.

Of things to do, for all that's true, of which I'll never know,
If I shrug off the gentle push of He who helps me grow.

Now you know and you believe in whose name's over your heart
So courage take and let Him help you rise to play your part!

Remember, if the burden seems to be too much to bear
Or even if it seems, for now, it always will be there

That once you sat in Tampa, and things did seem that way
But deep within your heart you heard your spirit boldly say,

"I'm a chosen son of God, and He has led the way.
I was not meant for failure here, I believe,

So Come What May!"