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