To see the face of the Father

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