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Notes organized on a set of lines
Are the language of music in wait.
Keys of ebony and ivory speak
The songs our hearts will create.
The flowers whisper to us, “Hope,”
With grace, their long stems lie still.
The composition of beauty brings joy
From the Maker and Giver of skill.
“Where is your song?” is asked
With concern and an inward jeer
“The song is being lived right now;
By faith, it will be written and appear.” ~jlw