The Song

Echoing out of the expanse of eternity is a song.

It flows in flawless three-part harmony from one Singer’s voice, vast and vibrant.

Its chords resound with such magnificence that the universe springs into being solely for the purpose of resonating with it.

Its harmony rings out in the treble tweeting of birds, the staccato rhythm of rain, the baritone bellow of the elephant, the tender lullaby of a mother.

But humanity in its vanity chooses not to sing along.

In our insanity we demand the right to compose solos for ourselves, rather than letting our voices meld into the overpowering orchestra.

We plug our ears with distractions – toys, wealth, pleasure, fame, flattery

We bang on everything we can touch, hoping to drown out the song, striking wildly at others and ourselves.

We create a cacophony so we don’t have to listen, then loudly conclude that since we can’t hear the Song, it must be a myth manufactured to silence our voices.

Its vaulting melodies are replaced with the grinding of machinery, inane chatter, whispers of gossip, voices raised in quarreling, the crack of whips, the thumping of soldiers’ steps, the sobbing of frightened children silenced by a gunshot.

Yet the song plays on.

The Singer’s voice will not be silenced, though it may sound soft and slow, sadden by our suffering.

The chords continue, constantly calling us to stop.

To listen.

To rejoin the chorus.

The song longs to seep into our tone-deaf souls, giving us new ears, hearts and voices.

The music will not stop until all discord resolves in radiant harmony.

For the Singer is also a Composer, and He planned a flawless finale before the first note was sung.