Crashbox

If one reclined at the rim of the world
Gazing o'er the order there
Perched upon high where lazy smoke curled
perceiving a realm full fair

I wonder what would be his joy
Seeing how all flows from fateful Calvary
And though with all reason he might employ
The depth of the sky he cannot see

Finally coming down from there
This quiet one may think
Only Goodness to be fair
Though he daily skirts the brink

And when at last his toes do slide
He, slipping from the height;
Fear and shame can no longer hide
As loss consumes his sight

Abandoned not at that deathly place
Though he chose the very step
Which brought him to the dusty line
He sees the mighty Face