This Lyric is #297

RETURN TO THE GARDEN
Copyright 2005 by James Park

We used to live in a garden - we only stayed a little while,
One slip and they took it all away.
We're still begging pardon - for a sin we're born with as a child,
In the hopes that we'll see an endless day.

Why do we spend en-ti-re lifetimes,
In petition of God for just an eternity more?
When will we see the true value of THIS precious gift,
And not get so hung up about what may or may not be in store
- who's keepin' score.

Is the garden a fable? - well there's one fable that's written in stone.
There in the skin of the Earth, if she'll confess.
Were we the Cain to their Abel - would we know our own brother's bone.
From the almost human - each revision less.

There is nothing wrong in having once needed a Tower of Babel,
To explain what happened when the family of man spread out so thin.
Leaving plenty of room to allow the rousal of a racist rabble,
As our new technology began to throw us back together again
- fooled by the skin.

Our garden's shaken by earthquakes - clearly to punish us for doing wrong - right?,
Or as a sign of the end of our being here.
Maybe they happen for our sakes - on a time scale so very long,
The re-release of a rock-bound atmosphere.

You might only see a single volcano spew or two in your lifetime,
But to God it would look a bit more like bubbles in a simmering pot.
Still we go through each day as though God's creeping like a theif up from behind,
To snatch us by the soul to spend forever in someplace just as hot
- I think not.

The garden became a city - and the evening gained a strange new power,
Safe and warm and protected by the light.
Well you can head to the country - if you drive for just one hour,
And get yourself re-aquainted with the night.

You'll see those same bright points we made into myths in our blunder,
Back when we thought their very movements could predict our fate.
Why are we not now even more filled with awe and wonder,
In the truth they churn out the metaphoric mud from which we're made
- when Supernovas fade.

Lets return to the garden - if it is indeed where we belong,
Though we know that it won't be quite the same.
It's not the time to harden - old beliefs in fear of being wrong,
In the ignorance of youth there is no shame.

If you define the garden as the place of our first temptation,
It is not to be found in some ancient valley or long-dead place.
It's a setting that still remains ripe for continuous creation,
You see, our garden's a pale blue dot we're riding through the depths of space
- our home base.


[This message has been edited by Kaley Willow (edited 06-08-2006).]