The Psalmist Writes
Through the darkest hours of night,
Near to the heart or out of sight,
Prepare to have thy soul take flight
As the angels sing and the psalmist writes.
Hear the song of every age
Now written down upon each page;
See the gardens he has roamed,
Communing often with his Sage.
Walk upon the mountain trails
Where he has often trod,
Sit beneath the Holy Tree
Where his soul communed with God.
Listen to the wisdom
That his God has whispered near,
Feel the earnest promptings
Of the heart as they appear.
Fill thy cup as the fountain flows;
Ask not where the water goes;
Eat the fruit that freely grows;
Feel the psalmist’s poems and prose.
Wander o’er the fertile plains;
To the yonder village gate;
Enter the Holy Citadel;
Keep watch o’er thine estate.
Listen to the quiet voice
That gives to thee thy sight,
E’er direct thine eyes to God,
Taking refuge in His might.
Hear the music as it’s played,
And know the prophet’s voice;
Heed the poet’s wisdom,
And in these great gifts rejoice.
And know that as the dragon comes
And as the spirit wanes,
And as the desert sands blow in,
Devouring these fertile plains,
The hope of man will not be lost
Mid the seasons of thy life,
So long as the shepherd guides his flock
As the holy psalmist writes.
