Luke 4: 24

'Truly, I say, ' the words unfold, 'A prophet's heart grows faint and cold— No honor waits where he was known, For in his town, he stands alone.' They see the child he once had been, Not dreams of what he'd come to win; A tender voice, yet strong and clear, Falls dull on hearts that will not hear. The gifts he brings, they cast aside, The light he holds, they fail to see; How strange that near can be so far, Their blindness hides the brightest star. For in the soil from which he sprang, His song goes mute, his harp left hang. Yet far beyond familiar skies, His vision soars, unbound, and flies.