They spoke of councils, doctrine and creeds. Of ancient truths and theological deeds.
Of intellect, essence and things divine. While I sat quietly, lost in the lines.
They spoke of the faith with eloquent art. Of things I couldn’t grasp with hand nor heart.
I couldn’t explain what the scholars could see. But something of Christ had awakened in me.
I’m only a man who works in the earth. With little to offer in scholarly worth.
I’ve known my own darkness, my sorrow and shame. Yet Christ, I’m sure, knows my name.
I have a wife and children whose names I call. A home where I stumble, where sometimes I fall.
But now I see blessings where once I saw days. And try to love better in Christ’s gentle ways.
I can’t explain all the theology. Nor grasp all the words of those wiser than me.
But I’ve dropped before a Cross, tears soaking my fleece. And asked for His mercy, His love and His peace.
The prisoner, the beggar, the mother, the child.The scholar, the farmer, the broken, the wild.
From peasants to princes, His invitation is free. Christ is calling us all — Lord, let it be.
The intellects question, the theologians unfold. I’ll tend to my garden, my family and home.
Is truth merely a thought that we’re taught to believe? Or a life being changed by He we receive?
