A Morning Song

There is a song called, “Morning Has Broken,” that was taken from a poem in the book Children’s Bells, published by Oxford University Press. It is a favorite song of mine.

It starts, “Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.”

All this week a very noisy bird that appears to live in a nearby tree has been “speaking” – and waking me up – at the first faint promise of dawn.

His song is sometimes sweet and sometimes raucous. It is his strident notes that penetrate my sleep.

One morning, early, I wondered briefly why I was awake – then I identified the extravagant frills and swirls of the nearby song.

I stretched lazily and turned over on my other side – with my back to the window.

And I thought about how this particular bird reminds me of the newly converted.

People who are newly born-again or Spirit-filled tend to be so thrilled with the least little touch of light in their lives that they make a nuisance of themselves. In fact, sometimes, like my bird, they make so much noise that they disturb the rest of those of us who don’t want to get up for anything less than the blaze of midday.

That thought shook the rest of sleep from my mind.

I wondered, Am I so accustomed to the day that, without the persistent, even pesky chattering and twittering of my morning singer, I would sleep through the fresh newness of the day my Lord has given me?

The newly converted have lived so long with drab darkness that they carry on extravagantly over every little tine of color they can see. Have I lost that sense of awe at the glory to come? Am I so jaded that I no longer see any need to rejoice daily at the announcement of its imminent arrival?

My bird has been charged by God with the daily task of celebrating His creation.

Unlike the bird, I may forget to praise at all.

Tomorrow – if I am awake to see it – the first blush of color in the sky, the fruit of the coming dawn, will remind me of the unforgettable.

Lord, don’t let me forget, not THAT morning.

The Light that came into the world through the Incarnation has risen from the darkness of death.

My eyes have sometimes seen its appearing. My heart has been pierced by its brightness. Even the faint brightness of dawn can pierce a heart.

Tomorrow the dawn – whether I see the sun rise or not – will reveal again the day of Resurrection.

My noisy bird has reminded me that every morning echoes this truth as night fades before the coming light.

The first verse of that song I mentioned ends, “Praise for the morning. Praise for the singing. Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.”

The last verse says, “Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning. Born of the one light Eden saw play. Praise with elation. Praise every morning. God’s re-creation of the new day.”