We're gettin' off this planet
You and me, son,
And mom, if she wants to come;
We'll hit the second heaven,
Whence the earth became;
Take to the stars
Our eternal name...

singing,
Love...
Love...

They're gettin' ready now;
Just like we're growing,
Sendin' rocket legs to Mars
Like we're really going,
But who is man
That God should care for him
Here in the interim?

we need,
Love... we need
Love... we all need
Love... singing,
Love...

Someone's gonna tell you
hell is a place,
And someone's gonna lie to you
about the terms of grace;
So, listen to me, son,
If we don't make it there together,
If you learn no other language
Please, make this your treasure...

singing,
Love... we need
Love... take to the stars
Love... eternal name
Love...

I must confess that I think it a most right and excellent thing that you and I should rejoice in the natural creation of God. I do not think that any man is altogether beyond hope who can take delight in the nightly heavens as he watches the stars, and feel joy as he treads the meadows all bedecked with kingcups and daisies. He is not lost to better things who, on the waves, rejoices in the creeping things innumerable drawn up from the vasty deep, or who, in the woods, is charmed with the sweet carols of the feathered minstrels. The man who is altogether bad seldom delights in nature, but gets away into the artificial and the sensual. He cares little enough for the fields except he can hunt over them, little enough for lands unless he can raise rent from them, little enough for living things except for slaughter or for sale. He welcomes night only for the indulgence of his sins, but the stars are not one half so bright to him as the lights that men have kindled: for him indeed the constellations shine in vain. One of the purest and most innocent of joys, apart from spiritual things, in which a man can indulge, is a joy in the works of God. I confess I have no sympathy with the good man, who, when he went down the Rhine, dived into the cabin that he might not see the river and the mountains lest he should be absorbed in them, and forget his Savior. I like to see my Savior on the hills, and by the shores of the sea. I hear my Father's voice in the thunder, and listen to the whispers of his love in the cadence of the sunlit waves. These are my Father's works, and therefore I admire them, and I seem all the nearer to him when I am among them. - Charles Spurgeon, 1891

--kw // korywilcox.com