The swirling mists rise slowly up from fields of ancient age sublime

The water ‘round a constant flow across the rolling land, a gentle source of life and sound

The mountains stand as stoic witnesses of life in all its fair and bittersweet expressions as the silence whispers memories of those who’ve come before

I watch the scenes that play throughout the eons long of trees that live and die, of waters fresh that come and flow and go, of men who live and build and worship He who made the glen in which I am and tell…

It is this God that now I softly praise.