Written by Greg Phillips

Concussed was I, in bed with greatest pain;

The noisy world ravaged my injured mind.

I planted Peace to soothe my aching brain;

Silence grew near, but Peace I did not find.

The busy days and weary nights ran on;

Though healed of mind, anxiety abounds.

For Peace to grow, my riches I would pawn.

Yet Peace grew not, despite my pleading sounds.

And so I went to seek a peace-filled land,

Where Peace grows old, covered in graying hair.

I searched, from artic snow to desert sand,

And still no peace found I, to my despair.

And then, behold! Appeared A Prince to me

Who spoke of lands, his own, where peace grew gray.

Whose righteous rule flowed with tranquility,

Who said “I AM” and all my fear gave way.

“How works that wondrous land”, I questioned him,

“For on this earth lies naught but troubles deep.

Our peace-crops shrivel up, our ground is grim.

The rocky, weed-strewn ground no plant can keep.”

He paused a moment, then spoke loud and clear:

“You plant man’s peace, which blooms a day then fades.

My lasting, gray-flecked peace flowers all year,

Till harvest time brings fruit in spades and spades.”

“My land is filled with peace and fertile soil.

It lies aloft, ‘bove soaring eagles’ wings.

Come sow my peace, for it no worm can spoil.

And you will find true peace, not worldly things.”

I heard these words, and to this land I ran.

His peace grew there, where all my joy began.