Words are now priceless, for their value is gone
Paintings are all worthless when done 'tween dusk and dawn
Gold is but a metal whose surface does not shine
And life carries no meaning unless that is mine
The canvas that has no color is the most wondrous of all
The great oak knows no equal 'til the axe begins its fall
The horse that can't be tamed is, of course, the most desired
When I sleep amidst the darkness is when I'm most inspired
The poet has no passion, yet his poems are full of heart
Whose heart did the poet put in it when plying quill to write the part
And purpose? What purpose? What prose on this world has need
My purpose? This purpose; to plant, to tend, to water a seed.
A seed of thought, perhaps of hope; for the world we know is upside down
Now a story, a poem, a wondrous song can turn this world around
And should no people raise the song, the stones will gain a voice
For, unlike we, they must sing, because they have no choice
And the Word is ever priceless, for who can meet such worth
Paintings cannot capture the beauty of our Heavenly Father's earth
Now gold is but a metal that lines that City's streets
And our lives can hold no meaning until the Master we meet
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