In the petals of the poppies as they fall on Flanders fields,
And the hearts of congregations dwells the mighty power it wields.
From the eyes of little children to the voices of the old
It comes and goes, but never dies, and can’t be bought or sold.

It counts no class or standing, or our economic state;
It knows no social etiquette, yet may decide our fate.
It can make a wise man foolish, quite unable to respond;
It can humble kings and princes, yet exalt a vagabond.

It’s the tie that binds our spirits . . . it’s the force that drives us on.
It heals us when it touches but it hurts us when it’s gone.
And there are those who’ve died for it, and others who have cried
Because it came so fleetingly . . . before it was denied.

But without it all would perish and be meaningless and void
It’s a gift to all humanity . . . a song to be enjoyed.
It’s the core of our existence, it’s the reason for our birth;
It abides through all eternity, beyond our time on earth.

It knows no fear or malice, asking just that we believe;
And blessed is the soul that gives . . . it shall the more receive.
It has no worth in rubies, or in silver, or in gold,
Yet it lives today as surely as in miracles of old.


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