The Air Is Rife With Singing Bells

The air is rife with singing bells,
in this heart, there joy rings
yet in the deep is heard the knell
that weeps for passing things.

To ancient stories we must hold
to failing hope we cling,
believing all that we are told,
what joy this season brings!

The lion once lay with the lamb
digesting in his gut,
and to an end we must succumb
and pass this earthly rut.

Yet in this folly must we hold,
and to our faith, must cling,
believing all that we are told,
what joy this season brings!

We wait for peace that will not end,
for joy that ever lasts,
yet chants the mantra, spend, and spend
for pleasure never lasts.

Yet for this folly do we hold,
some, for this faith, must die,
believing stories they were told,
where do their bones now lie?

The winds sing with the tolling bells
and joy runs to all men,
yet in the distance, hear the knell:
we know not where, nor when.