The Midnight Stills

Who waits quietly in the midnight stills?

Where, upon the grass, dew sits where it wills

Sunlight glistens upon golden droplets

As soon as morn rise between the sunsets

But in this lonely place of wait until,

who sits quietly in the midnight stills?

I raise a voice to a place way up high

and beg to understand the answer why

Placid waters make mirrors of my face,

showing the wrinkles of this waiting place

Songbirds chirp and sing, “You are not alone,”

but my lowly singing can’t find its tone

I raise a voice to a place way up high

and watch a man withering, soon to die

Sunlight glistens upon golden droplets

if only morn’d rise before the sun sets

I ask again for all the answers why

In this sorrow-filled place, why must I lie?

Placid waters make mirrors of my face,

showing the wrinkles of this waiting place

But who is waiting in the midnight stills?

Dew descends and lands wherever it wills,

but in this lonely place of wait until,

who is he who waits in the midnight stills?

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.- Psalm 130:5-6