Born upon this earth
Each one with the Composer’s song
Every moment recorded
To be played, someday, loud and long.
In the early days of trial
When our song is silent and unbroken
Earnestly awaiting its Composer
It rests in words yet unspoken.
The composer considers every note
As He walks through dark and dawn
Listening for the bird’s song on the wind
As He orchestrates storms and as waves are drawn.
The song sheet is before Him
Holding a pen in His hand
Revealing the name of His masterpiece
As He places it upon the stand.
Then He takes a step back
Assembles all who will be playing beside
He gathers some close and intimate
And some He places around the outside.
He lifts His great hand
And invites the assembly to begin to play
Notes appear on the sheet
Revealed with each measure’s sway.
The Great composer stops and rests
There is more He must write
Emotion flows from His pen
And the pages become a sight.
So much goes into its creation
As every measure becomes a line
and the words reveal beauty
That scroll across the pages like a vine.
He writes as if his heart would break
And tears now stain the pages
Mixing with ink from the pen
Almost as if a battle has been waged.
The composer never rests
Hand stained with ink and tears
He is intently devoted
As the orchestra patiently waits for more notes to appear.
As introduction and melody
Face the Composer, breath abated
It is finally time to reveal
To whom it will be dedicated.
He says, “I’ve written your name upon the title sheet
As, Beloved, you will read
And I’ve instructed the orchestra
To play it as you lead.
The song can be played
At your tempo, you decide
Make it yours but play each note
With speed or rest applied.”
He placed it in the hands
Of the beloved one He wrote it for
And reminded him
The end is not a finished score.
Then tenderly He took His beloved to His side
And whispered arms around him, “I’ll be here to write
When you are ready to finish the song
But for now sing it through even the darkest night.