We see our fathers standing strong,

the granite pillars of the church,

who drove the nails into the door,

who boldly drew the word and preached

like thunder from a stormy sky.

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We look around and mourn our loss—

for “godly men have ceased to be,”

and so we venerate the past

and make our fathers into gods

never to descend again.

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But now our skies are grey again

and driven to our knees at last

we plead the blood and sacrifice,

the mighty fortress of His name,

and try, and fail, and try again.

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And so the rain begins to fall:

the storehouse doors are open wide

and pour contention out again

while boys and girls raised up like wind

stand tall and bless the stormy sky.

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