The Storm
In the deepest hour of the night
I caught a sight of divine power
in the crashing of all heaven
upon the shingles of our humble home.
In those demonstrations,
you sink lower into your mattress
and feel the frailty of your form
that could so quickly be stricken to ashes.
Only those who feel this weight
in the hours of true solitude
will kneel in submission by their bed,
while the rest go death-chasing.
In the hours that followed
I rested with a heart awake and mind in slumber
as all nature was both oppressed and nourished
by clouds come down.
With all the ticks of clockwork
a hand moves and a flower blooms
a second passes and a river rushes
an hour strikes and power clears miles of sky.
Only those who look out upon redemption
in the dawning of the sun upon earth
will know the outburst of beauty
that is a living land rejoicing for the rain.
At the sight of the fauna’s first rushing to their places
and rooted life like veins in the dirt,
every daughter and son
sends a tear to fertile ground when the sky is done.
Gray-less day is more than a gift,
but a freeing of nature from spoil;
it receives the refining of torrent,
and comes out green and gold.
When the songbirds’ lively melody
becomes the singing of your heart,
you worship earth’s Redeemer
who holds it in his caring hand.