The circle turns round and round.The soul of man is drawn toward GodThen falls into decay. And round and round,And up and down it turns, but not quite.It is more like the orbit of planets around a sun,Not a perfect circle, but an imperfect eliptical pattern.Out it flys away from the souce of life And into the cold unfeeling void.Then at it’s outward limit It turns back towardThe source of lifeHurdled by the need for warmthAnd draws as close as it can get withoutBeing burned in the brightness of the sun’s glory.And for a season they rejoice in each other.Until the planet, once again, feels the needTo wander far from home And gain experience.And round and round it goes.And such is the journey of the soul.We like to think that it is an all an upward path to glory.But we forget that even He who rose to beOn the right hand of The EternalFirst had to wander farInto the depths Of the cold black night, an there be forsaken by the warmthBefore He was able to make his way back home.

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