Song of the Nightingale

Little songbird singing melodies
that flow from the throne.
Till all who hear can tell she’s His own.
Angels whisper secrets so sacred and true;
her song as the dew, so cool and so new.
She’ll sing in the night when the hour grows dark;
set apart to be His all weather lark.

The red breasted Robin has accomplished his task,
by pressing His breast as the His blood flowed quick and fast.
And the nightingale sang through a blanket so grim;
as pain wracked His body from limb to limb.

She sang till His glory rose with day’s light;
and the forces of darkness hastily took flight.
So now the Nightingale sings whether tis day or night.
If the hour be dark, or sunny and bright.

Song of the Nightingale

Janine Fynn

Cape Town, South Africa

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