What is it
Like the seasons, does it change
Awaiting God's visit
Or is it constant and assured
Against all doubt
  It be inured
Like an infant at his mother's breast,
A boy at father's play
Like him, compelled to be the best
A man, into his lover looks
And bedded, all his rage does rest

Where resides this faith in Father God
Pure reason does abjure
  Faith's feckless tomb
Shovels courtesy of Babylon, Persia
Rome and Spain did surely groom
The German's final scheme
When Madness bedded with 
And ended faith
It surely seems

But faith exceeds the mind of man
And in its grip one surely can
And doing so go on,
Perhaps relieve
The death of love, the loss of trust
The doubt, the fear of every leaving year
The dreams that turn to dust
Escape not God's most tender tear