The Song of the Spirit

Hazy blue horizons highlight the morning's silent echo of years gone by.
Silent waves of color stream into the sky;

Sing, child, sing.

Beyond the world's vast canvas wait the weary, the worn.
The ship of history waits in the sea's deep shadows for
the saints of Heaven to climb aboard.

Sing, child, sing.

Distant hills and fields beckon to the others, soon battles begin.
Waiting for the Christians' cry, the canvas colors blend.

Sing, child, sing.

The flutist plays, music flows to the crowd, then the strings, the brass.
Thunder erupts, the rains pour down, warm, clear, fast.

Sing, child, sing.

White doves fly North, cranes, robins, the birds of peace.
Movement from within, angels wings, warm, white, swift; relief.

Sing, child, sing.

The canvas waits, colors drift, soon the sun erupts into yellow, orange, red.
The rains cease, peace restored; the children can play again.

Sing, child, sing.