The circle turns round and round.
The soul of man is drawn toward God
Then 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 toward
The source of life
Hurdled by the need for warmth
And draws as close as it can get without
Being 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 need
To 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 be
On the right hand of The Eternal
First had to wander far
Into the depths
Of the cold black night, an there be forsaken by the warmth
Before He was able to make his way back home.
