Barefoot I walk
through the fields,trailing my hands
lightly
over the dew-topped grass
Grass that meets my eye,as I see my face
in a drop of nature; fearless
for one so small,made of surplus tears
from heaven.
The fog swirls around me as I walk through it,
towards the river where music is made.
For music is all that is left for me,
all that is pure and quiet and tender
It is the last thing I know that doesn't cause pain,
doesn't ask for anything in return,and never leaves you.
It always forgives you, like the voice of God.
It always carries you, like the arms of our Father.
It will always catch your tears,liked the hands of our Savior.
It will always whisper melodies of strength to your heart,
like the Spirit of the One whose love never fails,whose grace
never gives up on us, no matter how many times we may
stray from his shelter.