O the weight now gone by grace,
The heights of simple light of life,
From depths of blindness filled with haste,
The horror and the wretched chains,
More metal bitten day by every cramping day.

Hell's poisen struck at its ver' root,
Cut out with all its cloying rust,
Was not the work of man - no badge
Of stoic dispassion nor hedonistic glee,
But truly God in humble robes - the mockers scorn who purchased me.

The chirping birds frame trees in sound,
Now here we stand when Grace abound,
In these I see a glory woven,
My purchase at the seat of God,
His body taut on wood and shame,
Divisions broken at His name,
I see the thick oil painterly clouds,
It's beauty now to me so rich,
For all is mine for I am His,
Now He is mine, what more is this?

Talk the truth,
And people seem to look away,
Others gaze into your eyes,
Others seem to sway between,
But all in all the land is firm,
Under your feet and mine and the other's,
And as we talk we both seem to know:
Though confusion obscures the truest thoughts,
We stand on common ground to speak.