Oh, the village of the hillnSitting silently at willnLike some prophecy forgotten by an agenWith no guns before its gatenThe mysterious estatenLies waiting for its history's dawning pagenWith the raging of the sea before its heightnAnd the strength of those whom see beyond their sightnOh, the smithies anvil ringsnAnd the symphony it singsnNo voice nor poet's pen can put to tunenAnd electric lines of forcenRing around the humble livesnOf the souls that hear the master saying soonnWith the clouds that gather near disturb the nightnStriking flashes of a difference, fleeing frightnNo slight of tongue nor handnCan so boldly there withstandnWhen the spirit of it's truth shall speak the timenAnd no ignorance of lifenCan be held within the sightnOf the buttresses of ageless binds of timenThe communion of the forces take delightnWith the fear that no tongues may read nor writenWhite LightnOh the village of the hillnSitting silently stillnWith the strength of ages past they're still at handnReckons not to look behindnBut to look within and findnAnd to hear of those enlightened by the lambnWith the powers of the wind both fierce and lightnAnd the waters of the storm went through the night