cross culture life, teaching, writing
I knew a boy
he dreamed to fly
Staring at stars and counting clouds,
the sky his ocean,
he dreamed to fly
He breathed the air,
filled his lungs with hope
he spread his hands to catch the breeze
he dreamed to fly
I knew a boy
he would not jump
he would not brave the wind
he feared to fail,
And so he did not risk the sky
he dreamed
to fly
Red the rose,
And red the lips,
Red the painted
Fingertips.
Red the heart
That shed the blood,
Dead for man,
And bled for love.
Red the soul,
And fled the Dark,
Lead the weight,
And red the mark.
Red the Lamb
Who bled for man,
Red the blood
When hope began.
Red
A king is born,
A saviour strong,
To free the world
From suffering long.
They went to see
This mighty Lord,
With glorious throne,
And lethal sword.
Yet they found not,
A ruler great,
But saw instead,
A stable gate.
A stench-filled room,
A manger slight,
A newborn child,
That silent night.
No sword he bore,
No crown of gold,
A baby small,
Against the cold.
A servant’s heart,
The Prince of Peace,
A newborn Lamb
With spotless fleece.
For unto us
A child is born,
A helpless babe,
From heaven torn.
I cannot stand to be corrected,
My heart is far too proud,
With every thought that is rejected,
My anger cries aloud.
I wish my pride were not so strong,
Or rather, that I were never wrong.
I long to see that surging ocean
Of grasses in the breeze,
I long to hear the gentle winds
Wash o’er the emerald seas.
I long to gaze across the world
And see where sky meets earth,
I long to breathe the moving air,
That gives my life rebirth.
I long to be on this pleasant sea,
The true pacific calm,
I long to ride the waves of grass,
Where a prairie heart is home.