Oh I list’ for his voice in factory halls,.
I list’ in the market, in shopkeepers’ stalls,
But the clamor of industry deafened my ear
And the rustle of money was all I could hear.
In spired cathedrals I searched for my Lord,
In rite and ritual, in written word,
In witness and prophesy others might share,
I searched and I listened, but He wasn’t there.
Then alone in my garden, down on my knees,
I found my God in the birds and the trees.
In the dogwood and maple, the thrush and the jay,
In the grass ‘neath my feet that I trod every day.
And I heard His voice in the sigh of the breeze,
In the rustle of grass and the stirring of leaves,
In the song of the thrush and the cry of the jay,
in the sweet scent of flowers and the smell of new hay.
I no longer seek Him in industries halls,
Or spired cathedrals or shopkeepers’ stalls.
My God is the spirit of flower and tree.
The essence of life in all that there be.
Author George Baker