The watcher, the watcher, looks out to the lands
observing what eyes cannot see
a dying destruction of decadant hands
where knife cuts to heart and axe cuts to tree.
Life is extingished by fire and water,
by metal and flesh alike
The bowman fires up from the ramparts,
before falling dead as a stone to the dike
The watcher now sees this,
The cold, painful truth
a tragedy whispered by birds
The horrers of life without hope or a light,
is to terrible to put in words.
But the vine will still flourish, the branches roam free
after darkness and death have crossed over
The passerby wander knows not it’s small plea
and walks ever on while he wonders.
But the watcher now knows and he comes to the aid
of the branches and vine all alone.
He picks up his hammer and chisels away
until life can be guarded in stone
And the vine that’s inside, and the branches now too
have no fear of the cold, outside lands
thay grow on and on
in their stone refuge now
and are cared for by tender, warm hands.
he is the vine, and we are the branches,
protected and nurtured by one who’s above
he sent down the seeds, to help our world flourish,
and chiseled a safe, guarding wall made of love.