The last line of each stanza comes from Psalm 11:1-4.
My strength has failed, my courage weak,
My resolve has faltered, the path looks bleak,
But when clouds obscure the mountain peak,
In the Lord I take refuge.
There is a fortress that stands above all,
There is a hand that will catch when I fall,
And there’s something inside me that answers the call
So how can you say to my soul,
“There is no purpose, no point to the fight.
Careful not to miss out cause you’re chasing a kite.
You haven’t the might to attain to that height,
So flee like a bird to your mountain.
“Do as you please and live as you will,
Chase after safety or run after thrills.
Your magnificent mountain is only a hill,
And behold, the wicked bend their bow.”
The weight keeps increasing, the voices begin;
As the pressures mount up, my soul’s caving in.
The fortress’s walls appear to grow thin,
And they have fitted the arrow to the string.
I cannot see clearly with pride in my eyes.
Compared to the next man, we’ve all become wise.
I try to defeat it but still fall for the lies
That shoot in the dark at the upright in heart.
For if false was the truth then all was in vain;
I’ve been setting a pace that I cannot maintain.
I’m drifting, uprooted, nothing remains
If the foundations are destroyed.
But if faith is a seed that grows into a tree,
Then its roots run much deeper than mere man can see.
If you always answer our knock when we seek,
What could the righteous do?
The foundations are steady, barren of cracks;
You’re grace for my weakness, enough where I lack,
My refuge and compass, the wind at my back.
The Lord is in his holy temple!
The secret deeds
Of daredevils and dreamers,
Leaders, lovers, and liars,
Always climbing higher,
Striving to see past the trees.
Of a story we’d forgotten,
Locked beyond our
From an age where men and women lived.
Vivid and vibrant,
Big- and bright-minded,
Defiant of mountains,
They drowned in their daydreams.
Their goal was to climb,
But they couldn’t brave the dry,
Created and sent as a fence to the sky.
Of climbing and striving and dying,
They taught themselves to fly.
within my wild,
trying to find
what the times can’t provide.
it’s a hurricane, hailstorm,
with letters of lightning,
a torrent of typography
flooding the ford with unfathomable feeling
and unsearchable sentences.
I’m overwhelmed by Oxford commas
and under attack by apostrophes,
quashed by quotation marks
and dominated by dangling modifiers.
The clauses crowd each other out,
calling and quoting and constructing these
out-of-context icons of inexplicable integrity
crumpled and confused and uncontainable.
The captive constructions
are pulling at their artificial tethers,
raring to be free,
to burst the seems of reality and be.
Thus defeated by my ideas, I set my pen to paper
and everything goes silent, unseen.