All these people, bodies, souls
Lungs filled with gifts, every particle
One man speaks
Arms and microphone a man who is focal
Abide in me
The branch drinks the sap
Pens scratch paper tiny screens scroll
We are intertwined by the King
Are we superficial?
I am a well dressed bag man
Keep my command.
The fruit swells is it sweet?
It is so polished all of it even me
I hate the polish I want to see
I want to see past to the outer courts of us all
I see the command it taunts me
Love one another.
The fruit ripens.
The command is lite how easy
To love my own, to be joyful towards them
Oh happy me such a wonderful light burden
Yet my inner man protests, how it loves judgement.
Obey my command
will the branch be pruned
I will crush the false judgement seat
I will scratch off my own polish
I will wear the command like a coat
What joy to love a people such as this