What joy a brother is to me,
A twine of hope in all my chords,
A man to bind upon the brink and see,
Our Lord, in all his fearful awe,
Our Lord, our strength and holiness.

The chorus of a sold out heart,
In multitudes with adoration,
Joining each to their own part,
In open praise and celebration,

Praise to Him enthroned above,
Praise to Him who swoops below,
Who humbles now Himself to us,
Who takes on every feeble frame,
To hang for us and rise our mighty champion.

An inside day,
Roof firmly over head,
No leaks I'd hope,
Strong beams instead,
Tied to my desk,
Wrist full of lead,
I'm in the zone,
Enough's been said.

Oxygen debt is a peculiar thing,
A big small grace from God,
That's hard to place as significant or insignificant...

That is until you run,
For when you run he allows you to do a borrowing of his breath,
And trade the very life in our lifeblood for transient lactic acid,
Oh how it burns the breath and stings the chest,
Yet it will pass away so soon.

In the selfsame way:
He gives us life for transient suffering,
Ever passing, and forever unequal to the grace,
So that we can run the blessed race,
And reach him there where he sits with life and treasure forevermore.