White Light

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