I Must Go Down To

The Corn That Makes The Holy Bread By Which The Soul Of Man Is Fed, The Holy Bread, The Food Unpriced, Thy Everlasting Mercy, Christ.

Humans Consist Of Body, Mind And Imagination. Our Bodies Are Faulty, Our Minds Untrustworthy, But Our Imagination Has Made Us Remarkable.

Man Cannot Call The Brimming Instant Back; Time's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Days; If Man Must Make An Instant Gold, Or Black, Let Him, He May; But Time Must Go His Ways. Life May Be Duller For An Instant's Blaze. Life's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Years, Instants Are Only Cause Of All These Tears.

Commonplace People Dislike Tragedy Because They Dare Not Suffer And Cannot Exult.

It May Be That We Cease; We Cannot Tell. Even If We Cease, Life Is A Miracle.