We are not comfortable with this stranger in our house
We like to deny its existence shoving it ever to the back
Of our minds and lives, waiting for it to pass over us
To be spared a look at how finite we are, yet the most
Wonderful things spring from the ground of death
Beautiful flowers, green grass, our lives renewed
It all comes round to facing the dark valley of death
Knowing that it has not the last word, that finality
Of our finite minds, but the possibility of newness
Beyond us in the face of God looking for the deep
Love that set us free to ponder the infinite ever
Winding on in our hearts is the drum of love's song