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.