[The wind is whispering through the trees.]
Bethabara Cook Book, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, 1976
The wind is whispering through the trees.
It is speaking of an era long past...
Of happy people in a new, free land
With a chance for tomorrow
and a place to worship their Lord.
They prayed, my Lord, they prayed.
A song is drifting through the air,
Sung by a stout and hardy bunch
As they cleared the land and erected a fort,
And the Moravians ate their first Lovefeast
In a small, crude church, new made.
They sang, my Lord, they sang.
Plows were pulled over God's green earth
And a harvest was reaped from the soil.
It was hard bought and hard won
With much hard work, patience, perseverence,
And many prayers to the God they loved.
They toiled, my Lord, they toiled.
Winter came and took its toll on the weak,
Cutting down all who were not strong
And ready to fight for lung and life.
Many fell under the cold's cursed blow,
The graveyard on the hill saw and could not forget.
They wept, my Lord, they wept.
And now I am left to carry on the story
Of a people strong in the stuff of which life is made.
They cleared the land and made a home for me
That I might be a Moravian, too.
I can still see their faces mirrored in the sky.
They sighed, my Lord, they sighed.