In past times proud King God sat on his throne,
Fearsome, holy, high, feasting on praise;
Foreseeing all, beyond the end of days,
And meting justice out to sinful man.
For each meek subject he ordained a plan,
A single, narrow pathway through life's maze.
The sole way out for wilful, headstrong strays
Was bowing, broken to his will alone.
Today the throne is mouldering in the dark,
And God, quite unconcerned with majesty
Now weaves, in threads of blue and golden fire,
From free untrammelled lives her tapestry;
And ponders, with delight and sharp desire
The perfect imperfection of her work.
Fearsome, holy, high, feasting on praise;
Foreseeing all, beyond the end of days,
And meting justice out to sinful man.
For each meek subject he ordained a plan,
A single, narrow pathway through life's maze.
The sole way out for wilful, headstrong strays
Was bowing, broken to his will alone.
Today the throne is mouldering in the dark,
And God, quite unconcerned with majesty
Now weaves, in threads of blue and golden fire,
From free untrammelled lives her tapestry;
And ponders, with delight and sharp desire
The perfect imperfection of her work.
