They say the truth knows no name, It journeys from stranger to stranger, land to land, Till its lost in distant valleys, and it's not known from where it came
It's softly uttered by the masses, Whispered between their souls, Till a time passes --where it is shouted Across canyons and rooftops and the Truth is told
It's like a gentle scent, That has just eased out of a crimson rose The scent is guarded by humble servants Who chose God, and whom God chose
They treasure it, vigilantly watching where it goes, lest its whiff is smelt by Foul souls-- For God knows, they cannot fathom its beauty For them the truth is foul, putrid, With no semblance to a rose,
They cannot bear its pleasant fragrance And are quick to mask its horrid scent They cringe their faces in disgust and are doubtful of what is scent They are doubtful of the truth, Who sent it, and its scent
But every so often, Every so often, their comes a dove, Whose graceful wings smell of the rose, Where so ever the dove flies so too its scent goes, But the hunters spot it and its scent, And so they line up in uneven rows, Casting their bows, toward the dove And its not long before it is met with arrows,
Soon the earth is drenched in red, And it is not long before it is said Why haven't the heavens sent their scent And man searches, to and fro, in distant valleys Wondering where the truth went
