In the mountains in the mornings.
Is when the concert's held,
One must be extremely quiet
To hear the music well.
First the orchestra tunes-up,
There are many beeps and squeaks,
And endless scales of do-re-me's,
And other sounds unique.
I love the starting hubub,
Before the instruments have merged,
I listen with anticipation,
For their first united surge.
But for now, each tone's alone,
One comes, and then another,
No two alike, which is all right,
They're awaiting their Conductor.
I turn my ear to better hear,
The sound you think is wind,
But, as it blows between the trees,
I perceive sweet violins.
The wind enjoys playing games,
Especially on an early morn,
It whistles through a hollow log,
And I have heard a horn.
Is that a lively piccolo?
Or a playful, gentle breeze,
Laughing as it rifles through
The scrambling, falling leaves?
What is that? A big, bass viola?
Or a bullfrog singing loud?
So commanding and demanding,
Its chest puffed out and proud.
You think you hear a waterfall,
Crashing down below,
But I hear throbbing drums,
BOOMING deep and low.
The tickling of piano keys
Is water spilling in a brook,
That teases pretty pebbles,
While gurgling in and out of nooks.
But sounds I love most dearly,
The most precious of them all
Is the music made by tiny birds,
Their beautiful bird calls.
A meadow lark - a dulcimer,
A nightingale - a harpsichord,
A morning dove - a harp of gold,
And an oriole - a clavichord.
Next there is a tap-tap-tapping,
In the branches of a tree,
Does that mean the Maestro's ready?
I hear, but cannot see.
Each instrument's in perfect tune,
God's orchestra is now complete,
And with its special music,
No way can man compete.
The baton is raised; the music plays
In lovely harmony,
I have been blest upon this day
To hear God's symphony.