Some people live by their reasons,

others get by on their luck—

The one thing they all know for certain

is we'll never be certain enough.

Some people die for their saviors,

others, for people they love—

But the one thing they all know for certain

is they'd die to be certain enough.

So spin me a spherical goddess,

a statue to rust in her reign.

Set a cedar aside in her forest

to bear her impossible pain.

And when we are tired and lonely,

we'll go to its roots and we'll pray

for our troubles to part us as swiftly

as our enemies' watery grave.

We'll thirst for the thrills of compassion

from the depths of some magical spring,

And when winter befalls us, we'll ask them

why their sparkling ice doesn't sing.

The wisdom we've gained from the waiting

won't placate the weariest hearts;

they'll abandon the hope of their parents

and find power in wishing on stars.

So what do we get from the fighting

over truths we can never compare?

And can heaven help us in the hiding

from the minds we've been told not to share?

If these battlefield hymns are all priceless,

don't they cost so much more than we thought?

Is their currency stored in a blood bank?

Can their soldiers be bartered and bought?

There's a line between strident and strengthened,

and I hope we can take up that cross…

Because when faith is of losing and winning,

it's certain we all will get lost.