Lost within a maze of feeling, Stumbling through the dark. Living on a mem'ry fleeting, A dim and fading mark.

None to give me worthy counsel, None to hear me cry, None to help me live my life, And none to help me die.

O why! My life is empty. I have nothing for to give. I have no inspiration, and No reason left to live.

But, this thought, this e'er elusive Memory that finds My soul though bruised and battered, Still it breathes—it is alive!

Knowing not wherefore I found it Nor how long I've chased its heels, All my passion now surrounds it, Only in pursuit I feel.

Some abnormal freak of nature Finds me with a friend. A Christian, trim and perfect, I do not know how it began.

Talking hurt, but hurting helped; Words not spoken, heard. Stories of a Saviour King; Jesus Christ: “the living Word.”

Light in darkness; hope in anguish: Beacons in this storm. And o'er the waves I see a figure, Bright with love, and warm!

I stretch my arms and cry to Him: MY GOD I CANNOT STAND! He smiles, says “Peace, be still.” I take His nail-pierced hand. . .

Non nobis, sed gloria ad Te Deus. Copyright © 2005 by Tristan Harmon.