The wind the river roils well
And rocks like shells the boats offshore.
Reeds and cattails thrash and turn
As willows loose their streaming hair.
Soon the storm shall strip them bare
And wash downstream the whiplike ferns.
The river past its banks shall pour
And misery reduce to hell.
So do we all await the power
That rises with the rising wind.
The air electric sings of woe,
And darkness like a dirge descends.
Well do we know our fate depends
On more than we will ever know.
Nor will nor prayer that fate rescinds
Though grace attends each anxious hour.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon
Audio and Video Music: It's Coming.
By Josh Kirsch. Music free to use at YouTube.