Oh, the village of the hill

sitting silently at will

like some prophecy forgotten by an age

with no guns before its gate

the mysterious estate

lies waiting for its history's dawning page

with the raging of the sea before its height

and the strength of those whom see beyond their sight

oh, the smithies anvil rings

and the symphony it sings

no voice nor poet's pen can put to tune

and electric lines of force

ring around the humble lives

of the souls that hear the master saying soon

with the clouds that gather near disturb the night

striking flashes of a difference, fleeing fright

no slight of tongue nor hand

can so boldly there withstand

when the spirit of it's truth shall speak the time

and no ignorance of life

can be held within the sight

of the buttresses of ageless binds of time

the communion of the forces take delight

with the fear that no tongues may read nor write

white light

oh the village of the hill

sitting silently still

with the strength of ages past they're still at hand

reckons not to look behind

but to look within and find

and to hear of those enlightened by the lamb

with the powers of the wind both fierce and light

and the waters of the storm went through the night