A whistling girl
Among his flock of sheep
It falls to us
It falls to us
From his holy hill
And it falls to us
Yes it falls to us
By his perfect will
Through the open windows of the soul tonight
His yoke is easy and his burden light
Kiss the sun lest he be angry
And you perish in the way
The rivers of the sky are dry
And rolled up like a scroll
It falls to us
It falls to us
From his holy hill
And it falls to us
Yes it falls to us
By his perfect will
Through the open windows of the soul tonight
His yoke is easy and his burden light
Kiss the sun lest he be angry
And you perish in the way