O how bright you shine,
Son of the morning,
When my soul incline to grief,
To heal a reckless heart,
Punctured by hapless roughs.
O how high you soar,
Above the cross of death
To console a thief,
Lingering from beneath.
O Redeemer,
Hear the cry
Of an earthbound man,
Yearning for the hope
Of an endless-life.
Can I believe it?
Is it true?
No doubt,
I believe it.
You o KING
Is KING of kings.
Obliterate the blues,
From a mind of flesh,
And reform me for heaven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem