Down there the moldering bones remain, fossilized at best.
It’s warmer on the second floor, the view is quite spectacular.
Nothing to be lost unless, negating His behest,
We refuse to climb the stairs, abasement then our paltry nest.

When weariness obliges us to cast away the dusty shroud
We’ll heed His ardent plea: Come up, come up, and you will see
That everything below will still be there and will be now
Perceived anew as duteous reflection of His majesty,

Mere semblances of truth beyond the ceiling of our grasp,
Enjoyable but not enough to linger in the illusion.
Why the same spent storybook with tales of winters past?
When epic tomes await, each page a venture of profusion.

Why stay down where shadows congregate to chill the soul?
He said we must aspire to a loftier whereabouts,
We needn’t change our residence or modify the area code,
Assuring us the second floor is still our Fathers house.