Of Breath and Sound

Blow, soft wind, to Chinnereth, the sapphire sea;

Over the fields of lilies go, to Galilee.

How many mists from there have risen,

How many dews dropped down,

Since Jesus came to us from heaven

And walked the dusty town?

Blow, blithe wind, to the land he graced, anciently.

Make of the water a golden harp, a lyre each tree.

There in the sand was his footprint made,

Seaward his feet once moved;

Where on the soil or the tender blade

Was his presence proved?

Blow, soft wind, for we hear the sound of mourning men.

Carry the cloud to the parched place. We thirst again.

Though earth and water his image knew,

They show no mark of his feet or hand;

In fertile heart where the seedlings grew

His orchards stand.

Blow, glad wind, over Chinnereth, to the world again,

Bring the sound of his voice to us—renewing rain.

From where he lives and views his sea,

Those shining shores the heavens keep,

Blow, lovely wind, that we might be

Awakened from our sleep.