There’s a balm in Gilead to make the wounded complete.
There got here a toddler as soon as who sang God’s peace, a potent “all is effectively,” although nothing was, piped in a small voice in the midst of a darkish night time with no promise of daybreak. Too younger to learn, she sang songs by coronary heart mixing up tunes and phrases, including nonsense sounds as gleeful as odes to pleasure, with grace notes that made dirges pirouette;
reminiscent of her muddle in regards to the which means of balm, pondering it an explosive that changed into drugs “to make the wounded complete,” which made excellent sense surpassing the knowledge of those that may learn and knew higher, besides there was nothing higher than bomb turning into balm and soldier turning into healer within the music of a kid whose each phrase meant peace.
