Inside The Pastors Mind
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.