| Sunday morning, very bright, I read Your book by colored light
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| That came in through the pretty window picture
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| I visited some houses where they said that You were living
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| And they talked a lot about You
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| And they spoke about Your giving
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| They passed a basket with some envelopes;
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| I just had time to write a note
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| And all it said was «I believe in You.»
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| Passing conversations where they mentioned Your existence
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| And the fact that You had been replaced by Your assistants
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| The discussion was theology
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| And when they smiled and turned to me
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| All that I could say was «I believe in You.»
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| I visited Your house again on Christmas or Thanksgiving
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| And a balded man said You were dead
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| But the house would go on living
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| He recited poetry and as he saw me stand to leave
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| He shook his head and said I’d never find You
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| My mother used to dress me up
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| And while my dad was sleeping
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| We would walk down to Your house without speaking |