who in the whispered gentle breeze
a still small voice can hear, then please
enlighten all else with its words,
please tell the brooks, and so the birds.
please tell the mourning willow leaves,
and every creature else who grieves.
come, tell the setting sun, and so
do tell the gently falling snow,
and forget not the rising sun,
yet if you cannot catch it, run
and tell me of the things you've heard,
of falling branch and dying bird,
of hidden moon, of famine, drought,
of darkness come and lights gone out,
for surely, gone will be all things
unless a voice some meaning brings.
but as of yet, these years gone by,
I've earthquakes felt and heard wind's cry,
yet ne'er a still small voice to hear
yet though I wait with ready ear.
who in the whispered gentle breeze
a still small voice can hear, then please,
on my account, beseech Him ease
my doubting heart, and speak.
