This
old world is a good world,
Of that I’ve no doubt;
But
sometimes I’ve a problem
Figuring things out…
It’s
as if I’m a stranger
Just standing without…
Never
quite understanding…
Wandering about.
Sometimes
we’re forced to question
The roles we must play,
And
we find ourselves troubled
Each night and each day;
For
the answers are hidden
From us far away,
And
just what it all may mean
We still cannot say.
We know
not what we’re missing,
Or just what we’d need
To be
from all our heartaches
And tears at last freed.
The
many tribulations
Our good times exceed,
Oh,
how we need somebody
Our footsteps to lead.
Surely
somewhere there is hope,
There must be a friend…
Somebody
we can turn to,
Someone who will mend
The
many wounds we’ve suffered,
Someone who’ll defend
The
weary, storm-tossed pilgrims
Ere they meet life’s end.
Brother,
if you should e’er find
What I’m looking for
Won’t
you come for a visit,
And knock on my door;
I’ll
be happy to see you
And I’d ask no more,
For
then, at last, I’d be free
From my troubles sore.
This
world must be a good world,
Of that I’ve no doubt;
But,
still, I have my problems
Figuring things out,
For,
‘tis true, I’m a stranger
Just standing without…
I still
don’t understand it –
Wandering about.
H. L. Gradowith
10-05-2001