And today I sing silent.
I move my Bible and my hymnal and my box of verses and myself to my bedroom prayer spot to flee the rooster’s hallelujahs that come right up to my left ear through the north-side study window facing open coop, where Cocky-Locky makes his presence very known, and my quiet time… not quiet.
And I sit
and a song swells in my soul,
and my soul begins to sing it.
But not my mouth—
because just below me, underneath a floor-cum-ceiling, on library sofa, sits my husband—with his verses and his Bible. And my froggy, crackling allergy-time joyful noise will make his quiet time… not quiet.
And a picture rises in my mind, one I saw some time ago somewhere on film: of persecuted Christians—underground-gathered amid the light and day and busy doings all around outside their courtyard wall—singing out their hearts together… but not their vocal chords.
Joyful faces, mouthing words in whole-souled unison.
But silent.
It isn’t the voice God hears, but the soul.
The passion-moved soul can barely restrain the swelling voice inside—unless its outward form will crackle, irritate, and confound someone else’s heartful worship. Or when danger hangs a noose outside the door. Or when the voice won’t work, goes dumb disabled, but the soul sings on.
So what do I sing? What pours from my heart’s core, ascends as sacred incense?
“Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to Thee, how great Thou art! How great Thou art!”
Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord. -Ephesians 5:19 KJV
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