On Sunday morning,
some enter the sanctuary
with heavy hearts.
They are burdened.
Dry.
Barrenness is about them.
They are like the flowers on our front steps.
When they lack hydration,
when they thirst,
they cry to God for rain,
they hang their heads,
they wither,
they lament.
Then,
the people begin to sing.
And the rain comes.
Upon the souls of the people.
Praises ascend to heaven.
Mercies pour down.
The river rises.
Heads lift up.
The glassy sea.
Angels sing on the banks of the river
that flows from the throne of God.
I see it in the faces.
Like the flowers on our front steps,
an hour after we water them.
Dry souls respond quickly
to the healing waters of worship.
the people begin to sing.
And the rain comes.
Upon the souls of the people.
Praises ascend to heaven.
Mercies pour down.
The river rises.
Heads lift up.
The glassy sea.
Angels sing on the banks of the river
that flows from the throne of God.
I see it in the faces.
Like the flowers on our front steps,
an hour after we water them.
Dry souls respond quickly
to the healing waters of worship.
