But What Have I, But What Have

It's Strange That Words Are So Inadequate. Yet, Like The Asthmatic Struggling For Breath, So The Lover Must Struggle For Words.

…forgive Us, O Lord, We Acknowledge Ourselves As Type Of The Common Man, Of The Men And Women Who Shut The Door And Sit By The Fire; Who Fear The Blessing Of God, The Loneliness Of The Night Of God, The Surrender Required, The Deprivation Inflicted; Who Fear The Injustice Of Men Less Than The Justice Of God; Who Fear The Hand At The Window, The Fire In The Thatch, The Fist In The Tavern, The Push Into The Canal, Less Than We Fear The Love Of God.

In The End Is My Beginning.

It's Harder To Confess The Sin That No One Believes In Than The Crime That Everyone Can Appreciate. For The Crime Is In Relation To The Law And The Sin Is In Relation To The Sinner.

There Is No Feeling, Except The Extremes Of Fear And Grief, That Does Not Find Relief In Music.