Wind And Spirit

Chris Rice builds this song around a windstorm he can see but not touch, and the weather becomes the sermon. A weathervane swings to a new direction, dead leaves scratch circles down a lane, and the sturdy oaks seem to clap while a few stubborn leaves refuse to let go. Old Glory snaps and its tattered rope clangs against the pole. Twice the same physical reaction returns: his breath is snatched away, a tear comes to his eye, and something feels on the way, so he looks up. What he names there is the Father's holy breath coming from the corners of creation, riding a storm with what he calls tender fierceness, stirring his soul toward holiness. The second verse turns the imagery inward: dust resurrected against a window, the smell of earth and rain carried across distance, and slender grasses in an amber field bending to kiss the ground. In that bowing he sees the beauty of souls who let the Spirit lay them down. The bridge answers with surrender, wings opened wide to be carried by a force he cannot see.