Footpaths

Our Real God won't be harsh or cruel. Real God commits no crime 
Scholars write to judge our God, they do this all the time 

Some use learned principles to claim we're optimistic slaves
Though we are modern citizens, not prehistoric tribes in caves

And while my Lord's no myth, my reputation’s still at stake
Some investigative scholars publish that He's fake

My Lord is alive, I know His works are not a sham
I can believe in both; in science and the Great I am

Myth-callers, what a great disservice, please don’t bring me down
I've endured a nasty urge to wish you out of town

In defense of my Creator, I hope sometimes that you fail
You wish my entire faith to be a fairy tale

I don't want discouragement. I'd rather understand
That your bones are limited; my Father isn't banned

You know, I read and write; who's claiming that the world is flat? Geography and history? Well, I understand all that

Taunt my roots? Refute my family? You say we are not so smart
Will I overcome the doubts that snuck up and divide my heart?

I eavesdropped on some scholars yet again just yesterday
The preacher caught me hiding there, he said “Just let them play.”

I yelled about the big conclusions they’d made ‘in the false’,
A human ‘in the round’ knows more than scholars in the halls

“I need the path. It's good," I said. "They paint me like a fool.”
“Keep carving wisdom ‘in the round’ and leave them to their school," he said.

Well, it hit me in a dream, I hovered high above their heads 
I saw the skeptic-scholars tossing, troubled in their beds

God held the unseen history record which He's always kept
Images of time I watched. Forbidden to know these, they wept

I heard those skeptics raging cries, troubled souls alone
My sorrow for their sleepless heads revealed the limits of their bones

God said, “Behold, for doubt's preoccupation bears a prize."
I asked, “Where is it, I see only sadness through my eyes."

“The prize," said He, "is people-pleasing, master to your buried fears.
"You've been judged by intellectualists bringing meeker souls to tears"

So, narrow claims of skeptics? I’ve lost track and I don’t care
The wise live ‘in the round’, free from that logic ‘in the square’

Darkened limits of intrigue, they cap the solid-spectrum mind
Of skeptics and some scholar-leagues, ‘squares’ all living ‘in the blind’

I access Thirty Thousand Spectrums shining through my soul
Nay, more because the Spirit's wise and lights an endless scroll

Mad masters miss their mark in myths they’ve made like martyrs to their cause
While we’ve explored the spectrums unlike myths in scholars’ murky laws

I’m soaring now through all these spectrums, singing from above
“The big boots all get stuck in mud, so I’m flying like a dove

When I shed a feather, I’ll just use it as my quill,
Arrange maps ‘in the round’, with wisdom that my soul can feel

Cause truth ain’t fact and fact has lacked; a sad deficiency
In the human whole, the Godly soul, the love of you and me”

Nah, truth ain’t fact; smart maps all lack good warm reality
Doves drift high, recording footpaths in our spirits' tapestry

Hear the walk of faith on footpaths? Sounds like subtle chimes
It's rarely heard of, strung by mistics under rowdy times

Who knows the history, all of it, the virtues and the gems?
None who write their fight so cry by night in fallen whims

Disenchanted, lost and found and lost and found and lost?
See this vicious cycle? Is it really worth the cost? 

Follow the chiming to the footpath, ain't gotta wear no shoes
No keeping score upon the footpath; it's there for all to use