Where I Lived, Before I Was Born
Where did I lived before I was born—
Before the light had learned my name,
Before the hush of earth and morn
Had shaped my breath or taught me flame?
I think I dwelt in silence
Where sound was soft and never broke,
Where time lay sleeping, unaware,
And silence spoke the words I spoke.
Around me flowed a tender glow,
Not day, not dark, but something known.
A warmth the heart alone could know,
A country made of breath and mind.
I heard no voices, yet each I knew
The meaning folded in each tone;
The future sang, the past was true,
And I was never quite alone.
I felt the nearness of all things—
Of rain before it learns to sing.
Of wings unborn, of hidden springs,
Of love that has no name at all.
There was no weight upon my eyes,
No edge where grief or joy could start;
I touched the roots of quiet skies
And held that space inside my heart.
Perhaps I lived in God’s long thought,
Or in the dream the stars once spun,
Where every soul is gently taught
Before its fragile life begun.
And when I came to flesh and breath,
To joy that fades, to grief that stays,
I brought that memory through my death—
A homesick light, a borrowed grace.
For still, when dusk is very near
And all the world grows dim and thin,
I feel that other place draw clear
And know—I have been there before.
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