The poet is but a melodic mute

Without trials that stir up rhyme

The writer has nothing to say

If Jesus has not been given his time.

 

The preacher is preaching amiss

If the Holy Ghost has not his ear

The prophet shall miss the mark

If he is afraid of mocking jeers.

 

The songbird will silence at last

If the rain does not pour a new spring

And the psalmist has nothing to allure

Broken hearts without suffering strings.

 

A wilderness has a surprise

Of pools and sudden seen roads

So if you’re in this place

God is writing your song don’t you know.

 

 

For the LORD shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the LORD; joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving, and the voice of melody.

Isaiah 51:3