A Hard Rain of Light
In a low room, in a small town shadow,
a child was born where the cold wind blows,
no place to lay him but the straw and the silence,
while the night watch kept and the star still rose.
People said trouble, people said glory,
people said nothing they could understand,
but a voice like thunder rolled through the valley—
“Every grain of truth is in this man.”
He walked on roads with no direction,
dust in his sandals, fire in his eyes,
talked about kingdoms not made of silver,
spoke of the truth no coin could buy.
The blind saw light, the lame kept moving,
the lost found something they couldn’t name,
he said the first will be the last tomorrow,
and the last stand up in a burning flame.
Well, the dealers and the keepers, they got nervous,
with their tall walls and their paper laws,
they said, “Who is this voice in the wilderness?”
but they never could see what the silence was.
He carried no sword, wore no crown of power,
but the crowd still gathered in the pouring rain,
and every word fell like a hammer of mercy
on the chain of sorrow and the wheel of pain.
Then the night came down like a curtain falling,
thirty pieces and a whispered name,
a kiss in the dark and the sound of footsteps,
and the sky went black with a different kind of flame.
They nailed him high where the wind kept howling,
between the thieves and the broken sky,
he said, “Forgive them,” through blood and thunder,
as the world kept turning and asking why.
Well, the stone rolled shut and the ground went quiet,
and the watchers thought it was all the end,
but you can’t hold light in a grave of shadows,
and you can’t keep truth where the lies pretend.
On the third day rising like a slow train coming,
through the silence and the shattered door,
he walked back out of the night unbroken,
like he’d been there a thousand times before.
Now some say gone and some say living,
some say lost on a distant shore,
but the wind still carries that same old whisper—
“Not the end, just a turning door.”
From before the first word was ever spoken,
to after the last tear falls like rain,
he moves through time like a circle unbroken,
through every loss and every gain.
And the light keeps shining though the night gets heavy,
and the song keeps rolling though the singers fall,
‘cause the truth don’t die on a cross of iron—
it just keeps walking beyond the wall.
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