Go again to that dark place
where freedom dies and life lies waste.
Consider there that time, now past,
when all alone you gazed aghast
at broken dreams, forlorn and bent
beneath your feet lay, shattered, spent.
Return once more to memoryís cove
where, snug and safe, a treasure trove
of gold and silver, safely hid
from evilís touch and gamblerís bid.
Protected by a Fatherís hand
who caused these dreams to ever stand.
Some will die, and others live.
It is the Fatherís grace to give
the best to those who dream, and wait
for Him to choose which one to take
and weave into lifeís broken heart
a thread of hope, that missing part.
Let fall behind those painful sparks
of dying dreams that now grow cold.
And look beyond their fading light
toward His promise, pure and bright,
of dreams set free, divinely blessed,
a Fatherís gift, as always, best.