The low lonesome strain of a bluegrass fiddle 

fills the empty cabin, carrying a song 

of love lost and life gone by. 

Within the death of what was, the banjo rings 

and a seed of joy is sown.

Old Friend, borne upon the wind, 

I know who you are.

Birds a flyin’ to the west, bringing rest 

to a restless mind.

As the sun is sinking low, a trail will cut 

through the wilderness, where many tears fell. 

At the banks of the great river, 

and the heights of the mountain of the Lord,

You prepare a table 

in the presence of your enemies. 

My cup runneth over, and all is at rest.