Let This You Know

pick up the unused guitar along the wall,
(it's Christmas, after all)
tune it and pluck the strings in arpeggios,
do not strum,
break all the old patterns,
begin to sing in pure voice,
open your throat,
let the sound rise from your belly
on waves of your life's breathing.

Do not struggle for words,
let the sounds simply come
even if the syllables and sighs
make no sense to your mind.

Do not struggle for melody,
let it be,
let the music rise,
let it be you and you alone
who sings.

Then you will be like the birds,
like a river between its summer green banks,
like a swan on an evening pond
sailing between stars and the moon,
wind choirs singing somewhere in the willows.

The wood of the guitar will melt with its flame
your hard places
and you will forget
with tears your pride,
you will remember things you never knew
you always knew,
and He will be praised.