Hapless hookers and skeptics alike
Collide with effortless uniformity
Though Preachers lament in cold stone
Where flies, scattered on the floor,
Escape the brilliant light seeping through
And the basement, no one is allowed
The rhythm is unmistakable
Interpretation is infinite
Confrontation is definite
For your father’s sake you must believe
Thomas was the son of God
Living in fear
By morals and metaphors
He was a widower to a lost cause
And a country long forgotten
But never forsaken
Relevance is irrelevant
Answers are permanent
History repeats
And we will follow the rhythm back again
Believe in what was
Believe in what’s to come
Hold on to eternity
For Thomas was the son of God