Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have a nest
But the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.
All man struggles for is rest.
But suffering weighs him down like lead.

Would that he was like the fox,
Content with his solitary hole.
With no regrets for the past, nor shipwrecked on destiny’s rocks.
No fear for the future or our life’s role.

But that is not our destiny.
Ours is to worry and plan.
In hope of some lasting legacy.
Would they have them say from fate we ran.

And when all ends in disappointment.
We can take comfort that one man once gave all for our atonement.