𝐀 𝐏𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬

I hear the stones begin to hum,
a low tectonic hymn.
The mountains clench like silent jaws,
the riverbeds grow grim.
For we have traded songs for sirens,
praises for the pound of progress,
and left the altar cold.

O, let it not be stones, Lord,
Let it not be flint and granite
that remember how to shout.
Let the cliffs not learn the chorus
meant for lips and living breath.
What a sorrow, what a breaking,
if creation must proclaim
while Your image-bearers sleep.

We thought we did not need You,
built our towers from the dust
You first spoke into being.
We called it strength, this silence.
We named it freedom,
this hollow in the chest where praise once grew.
But the void remains unyielding,
and our anthems ring like rust.

Yet You do not need our voices.
The rocks await their cue.
You are not made poor by our silence,
nor enriched by our small songs.
It is we who need to sing,
to crack the shell around the soul,
to feel the pulse of grace again.

So bend me, break me if You must,
softer than a stone.
Take this stubborn, silent heart
and tune it to Your throne.
Before the very gravel cries,
before the hills find language,
Here, Lord.
My breath.
My breath will be Your praise.

For what are we without You?
A chorus turned to clay.
But with You, even whispers
hold the echo of the day
when every knee shall bow,
and every tongue, not stone,
shall finally, fully,
say Your Name.