Lent
How joyful is this blessing,
that the guilty may repent
and in sackcloth and ashes
make justice to relent!
How splendid is the wonder
of this gift from mercy's hand
that sinners may have recourse
from punishment's demand!
How Strange that You Think I Love You
How strange that you think I love you,
when in this world of lie
scarce any deed is ever done
that the next does not deny;
and you will not have proven my promise
nor have shown that I do not rave
until what binds me to you
outlasts the conquering grave.
How strange that you think I love you,
when only time will tell:
when I've conquered death and heartache
and braved the gates of hell,
when, the world within my fingers,
I let it slip on through
for the wonder of your whisper,
for the glory that is you.
