Office, the vine of Divine
Profit, mundane to mine
I am so high, floating on the wings of your hype
...
Where is the smell of the rose? That perfumed sense that caresses my nose.
I sniffed the air but your scently hair is nothing near.
How long is time? How far is distance?
I'm missing that breeze that brings you here.
...
Inside The Pastor's Heart
Office, the vine of Divine
Profit, mundane to mine
I am so high, floating on the wings of your hype
I sin not in your eyes
And sick not in your hands
In drought,
I look up to forecast rain drops.
My WILL,
In it, reads my son.
So, ‘Thy will be done' will be wheeled on.
I know I said.
I said I know.
But within I know,
No eye within.
I scream his name for you to hear;
To wash my guilt and all I fear.