He who takes up the sermon may turn to stone,
yet still he looks to the heavens above—
whose soul, I wonder, will you own?
How long must we suffer and plead for love,
and gaze at the stars with hope?
The Qur’an, the Vedas, the Testament new,
the Torah—each claims a spark of truth;
in mind or heart we search in gods
for unity, meaning, fear and proof—
a pardon from death in fevered thought.
Religious wars, crusades, and creeds,
terror’s mask and zealot’s cause—
is this the form that conscience needs,
or just delusion’s grand applause?
Among the roses of revolt,
beneath the veins of buried stone,
it’s clearer still, in eight billion souls,
how near the prince of this world is shown.
He stands by each, yet none can know
what fate our mortal hands compose—
to truly believe, and wait, and ache,
and endlessly suffer, and endlessly grow,
and gaze at the stars with hope.