We Are All Like The Bright Moon,

When God Created Man, He Gave Him Music As A Language Different From All Other Languages. And Early Man Sang His Glory In The Wilderness; And Drew The Hearts Of Kings And Moved Them From Their Thrones.

Yesterday Is But Today's Memory, And Tomorrow Is Today's Dream.

We Are The Sons Of Sorrow; We Are The Poets And The Prophets And The Musicians.

Out Of My Deeper Heart A Bird Rose And Flew Skywards. Higher And Higher Did It Rise, Yet Larger And Larger Did It Grow. At First It Was But Like A Swallow, Then A Lark, Then An Eagle, Then As Vast As A Spring Cloud, And Then It Filled The Starry Heavens. Out Of My Heart A Bird Flew Skywards. And It Waxed Larger As It Flew. Yet It Left Not My Heart.

You Often Say, "i Would Give, But Only To The Deserving." The Trees In Your Orchard Say Not So, Nor The Flocks In Your Pasture. They Give That They May Live, For To Withhold Is To Perish.