Love from on High

Were it not for rain,

that comes on the southwestern wind

and cleanses the sidewalk

of oil—and the heart of sin;

were it not for the rain

on a begrudging Sunday morn

who could stand triumphant

that once was forlorn?

Were it not for the rain,

that gives life anew

our hate might swallow

and no truth ring true.

Yet there we stand

o’er pine-boarded pew

and sing forth,

“Arise  O Lord”

and in me,

your spirit imbue.

Were it not for the rain,

that wells up inside

each time we’ve suffered

and each time we’ve cried;

were it not for the rain,

that mercifully cast

among the host of sinners

the thought of repast;

were it not for rain—

the tears of heaven come down,

no life could cleave

this parched mortal ground!