What sort of man when truth he sees
Will turn his path around?
What sort of man then must he be
Who seeks what can’t be found?
These eyes of mine, they often gaze
At passions found within.
Such hidden longings guide my ways
To houses full of sin.
I am the man who often looks
Away from holy words
And coldly pens my darkened book
With steps that are absurd.
I follow ways of wicked men
Their dark ropes will ensnare.
In prison then I wonder when
I’ll break these evil cares.
I look for truth around my feet.
My hope falls empty back.
My lonely soul begins to weep
For moorings that I lack.
But truth it comes not from the earth
Nor from the heart of man,
It comes from lowly manger’s birth
By God’s eternal plan.
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