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The Answer....DGB, 1969

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The world has its own. They call their home.
Their poets, they grope without any hope.
They never can cope,
with the things that they see.
Then they sing them to me, without any key.
Only to be: tossed in their grime, torn up in time,
burn out in rhyme,
failing to find. --The answer

The world has its own. They call it their home.
Their prophets, they grope without any hope.
They hang you a rope,
Their neck in a noose;
so what is the use?
They'll take you out too, and choke out with you.
Swinging in grime, they’ll sell you a line,
burn up in time,
failing to find. –The real answer

Ah! But God has His own. The world’s not their home.
He gives them His care, for men in despair.
A world that denies:
that He’s even there.
His message, it rings. Freedom it brings.
What does a cross mean; empty tomb, that’s no dream?
His Spirit He said, gives life to the dead.
Why does it seem His children are born:
All over again? – It is the answer. …DGB 1969

To all the hippies, yippies, and yuppies: I walk no longer with you; come with me, and walk with Christ.
 
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