For the haunted men whose lives are lived within the ghostly strife Of knowledge that cannot be won and deeds that never can be done.
Soul of the world, immanent God,
Spirit that dwells in every heart,
Give a sigh for the wandering Fool,
The prodigal son so far from you.
Then hearken to the sounds of strife
Raised by those cut off from life.
Send the prophets and holy books
To give a voice to your silent cry.
The prophets, those who seek you out
With no fear, nor hidden doubt,
Deep within they seek your voice
Fleeing the outer, empty noise,
Pleading 'til you no longer hide
But grace them with the pearl of price,
The greatest gift, touch of life.
Then to the world of separate lies,
To the world of me and my,
Send them back with your cry
To the haunted cut off from life
And to those who seek you out,
Harboring small and hidden doubts
While seeking knowledge in themselves,
Never knowing where it dwells.
Let the prophets speak as one
Of the inner, secret sun
That's never seen, never found,
Never heard, unspoken sound,
Deep within, but oh so far,
Living, unknown star.
Dwell in silence, but ever start
To grow, to speak, to roar;
Though still remain unspoken sound
In which all knowledge can be found.