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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