I face the rising sun,
And pray, “Thy will be done.”
‘Tis not for sloth or lack of care
That has me ending my prayer there.
Rather, I trust You are good.
All my life I’ve understood
That if You’re goodness proves as true,
Then I can leave all things to You,
Surrendering my need to grasp,
Or to my sense of power clasp.
With my eyes down, I’ll do my best,
And leave in Your good hands the rest.
What we feel will change in time,
Yet this takes place of the Sublime.
Each consolation passing by,
We follow, seeking our next high.
‘Tis no wonder, then, that we
Can hardly grasp fidelity.
Whether God or Love or Passion,
All in some degree or fashion,
Matter based on what we feel.
When we’re not high, it isn’t real.
Perhaps what we must do instead
is face the truth we’ve come to dread.
No hit is lasting; highs are cheap;
No lasting treasure will we reap
Should we keep up our fevered pace
All passing pleasure to replace.
God is not when thing go “right,”
Or when we fall for tune and light.
Love is not emotion sweet,
Abandoned when our stores deplete.
Passion is not mere elation,
A fleeting, short infatuation.
Unless these things survive our mood,
I fear we’ll have no lasting good.
