The Symphony of Life
Our life is but a symphony played out before the world,
Each moment brings to it a note we write some every day.
Composers, yes, we write our score, each one a masterpiece,
Our passions played in Heavens Courts, where angels sit in awe.
A symphony brand new is played; Life’s Proms will soon begin,
The audience are seated now, the orchestra arrived.
Silence falls in Heavens Hall a hush descends on earth,
The Conductor stands before the crowd and slowly takes a bow.
The music score is part of Him; He knows each note of grace,
Each space and rest, the tempo’s pulse, each rise and fall in life,
Imbedded in His heart and soul waiting to come forth,
He taps His baton, lifts His hand, a note clings to the air.
I hear the woodwinds lift our thoughts above to heavens realms,
The flute so sweet the clarinet, the oboe and bassoon,
Our prayers dance in spiral clouds, incense fills the hall,
Each prayer we said, each tear a note, each note so bittersweet.
The high and lows of all endured, the pain from anguish’s grasp,
The tears we wept in darkened rooms, the times we yelled, ENOUGH!
The violins do reach within, bringing emotions to a surge,
They build upon each previous note awaiting sweet release.
The bass and cello join the flow to bring a depth to all,
Lugubrious, mournful, con dolore; life’s sorrows all we feel.
Love and hate ignited now, they vie capriciously,
Directly from the Conductor’s hands the orchestra receive.
The percussion keeps the beat for us, while we wander through life’s song
Notes are crushed within the score, missed by those we knew.
The piccolo clearly lingers there while joy and sadness pass,
The death of those we loved so dear so quietly the notes fade.
Laughter, bliss and passion burst, accesso in His hands,
Slow or fast or in between, He knows each various bias.
The composer’s heart doth beat within the music that we hear,
The Conductor pours His heart and soul He feels the pain and joy.
He leads the pace; we feel the love, the trials and the tests,
Each sickness, failure and regret, are notes, which have there place.
While in the spaces in between we find the peace, the rest,
The quietness where strength doth come there life is filled anew.
The rests are but a part of it, the orchestration of our life,
You can hear love’s whispers in between, it all lends to the whole.
The notes, the spaces, all combine to bring the score to life,
Each pause is but a breath of air to lift our soul on high.
Birth and marriage, oh such joy, you feel the music rush,
The brass and woodwinds have combined in rapture to explode.
Our daily sweat and toil are there, our struggles everyone,
Exhaustion, labour, agony, are mixed in with laughter’s notes.
For all we feel and all we do, are notes in our life’s score,
The symphony of our life is writ in all we say and do.
Our pensiveness, our every thought, each word that we do speak,
Each irritation, jealous thought do add to our life’s score.
Laments we have and not a few, we sob in many notes,
Yet laughter’s notes did rise above, to join with love and joy.
To see the good instead of bad, to dwell in positiveness,
These harmonies and tempos paint the picture of our life.
The horns came in, the brass was loud, the bass and snare kept time,
The violin did cry and weep, the flute did float on by.
The harp so beautiful each pluck, thoughts do fly on high,
Then when the organ entered in, the heart did beat and throb.
And thus within the halls above the orchestra did play,
The story of a life the score, we’re living every note.
The spaces and the rests we felt, the teardrops and the pain,
Happiness did fill our soul in rapture at the score.
A plaintive cry a flute did play, the violin did weep,
And then the end we now did reach as notes lingered in the air.
A hush now fell upon the hall, not a sound was heard,
A white dove glided through the air rose petals rained on all.
The Conductor turned to all and smiled, His eyes were brimmed with tears,
Acknowledging one whose life they all had now just listened too.
The audience stood, applause was heard, a standing ovation,
This piece of work, a masterpiece, the Proms had just begun.
© Copyright 2016 Graeme Montrose. All rights reserved.