It is Old, Old, Old,
Older than the best of us could ever hope to fathom
In no small part due to God's purposeful obfuscation
That set an arbitrary limit
On the ideas we could conceive
And let me tell you this of antiquated ancients—
Things so Old, Old, Old,
They skirt by their mistakes, espousing wisdom,
Telling anyone and everyone why things must be this way
To avoid the weight of abject failures
To face themselves and grieve
Jesus wept.