Look at me, a moving miracle
It is hard to believe we take this for granted
What would our ancestors say?
Would they think us some kind of god?
I am in the clouds, above the birds
Legend would expect us to crash into heaven
For angels to be perched atop the clouds
Playing sweet melodies on harps & signing Your praises
Myths would tell me that this is the place
To see the face of the Father
Yet I know that to see your face
I must look inside, not to the clouds