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SaganagaJoe
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03/04/2016 11:01PM   (Thread Older Than 3 Years)
Reposted from Listening Point:

The spell of night is fast giving way to the piercing rays of daybreak. My worn shoes trample the gravel, bark, and needles on the worn trail as I head into the woods. The brisk morning air chills my hands and brightens my eyes. The winter bands of birds are breaking up into pairs. Chickadees giddy with love chase each other in twirling circles around the budding alder branches, and the kinglets hop from barren twig to barren twig searching for their breakfast. A chipmunk sits on his branch and sputters nervously as I walk by.

I head farther into the forest. The evergreen depths retain the fresh morning air and hold it close, attempting to shield it from the penetrating fingers of light. The bubbly, laughing song of the tiny Pacific Wren emanates from the hidden depths of the groves beyond me, the ethereal, mysterious secret melody of Pacific Northwest forest groves. One hops through the undergrowth near me, shyly hiding from my presence but still singing in short bursts. I lean on the railing of the wooden bridge and smell the pungent decomposing reeds of the marsh. A pair of wood ducks is just walking up. The male sees me and steadily swims toward the shelter of rushes, a safe haven from the exposure of the marsh pond. With loud squeals the female follows him, her loud o-eek! o-eek! cutting the still morning air like a knife.

I head down the trail toward the other side of the marsh. Sunshine catches the tops of the fir trees and deepens the contrasting shades of green. Robins carol and laugh from the lofty heights in an ever-continuing choral tune, welcoming the arrival of another morning. One sings the melody, another follows with the counter-melody, and all blend together into a song of joy and rapture. The ringing whistle of the red-wing blackbird adds the tenor part to the song. As I stand on the banks of the marsh, two mallards nervously take off in a chorus of nasal quacks, landing on the other side of the marsh. A lone bufflehead slowly follows on their heels. Another pair of mallards continues their breakfast while loudly protesting my presence. I do not blame them; they do not know me from another predator. I move away from the marsh and they soon calm down.

My feet quietly massage the soft trail as I head up from the marsh into a large grove of fir trees. The rays of light and life silently, and yet deliberately and effectively, quietly slide between the great earthen trunks. One beam shines with a steady brightness, another follows with yet another steady ray, and all blend together into the firm, insistent invasion of morning, taking darkness by the collar and throwing it over the horizon out of sight. The chorus of birdsong continues on with each new ray. Yet in an instant it is gone, as the sun momentarily slides behind a cloud. Yet the birds sing on.

As I head out of the woods and the caroling chorus begins to wind down, I think of the Psalmist’s words, “Sorrow may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” And indeed we can expect that sorrow will come, just as certainly as each evening brings the dark fingers of night. In truth, it could be said that, as far as we can see and hear, the natural world temporarily dies every night, veiling the forest in a shroud of blackness. The clouds also temporarily veil the light of the sun. But the night and the shadows will not remain forever, and the birds know it. Even before the sun rises, they begin to sing, waiting in faith, hope, and certainty for what they know is soon to come, just as it has come every morning before. And just as certainly as the sun rises each day, so certainly the sorrows of those who believe in the Creator will come to an end as the presence of the Son penetrates and indwells them. For the morningsong is ultimately to and for Him, and the song of my heart ascends to Him with the song of the birds.

This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done:
Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,
And earth and Heav’n be one.

-Maltbie D. Babcock
 
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