It's Death I face each time I step outside the Chamber of the Bride. An existance everyday endured whilst longing to reside within the walls of the one held dear in His sight. I labor alongside the Dead whose boisterous voices claim a life not one of them has ever lived, yet believing we are the same. I cry within myself, wishing I were home; but knowing the harvest never comes lest seed has been sown. In this field, I find myself becoming like the thorns. I fear that any come too close lest by me they are torn. My jaggered words run deep at times, bruising the tender soul within. What hope have I to help the lost when struggeling with such sin? Oh, God, my God, my soul's great desire, help me to be clean by the Refining Fire. Let me return to thee; to the Chamber of the Bride. Let your blood, all crimson, hide. For I am covered with the flesh in which I live each day. Please let me enter once again the door from which I came - Oh, the fine house and all the vast domain! Let me return, I plead with thee. Answer me once again; for I am lost without your voice to guide me to the fold. Oh, with your arm, your great strong arm, this weary lamb please hold.