While in Scotland, I wept the sound of rain in unison with the heavens’ downpour upon

an ancient land. The first drops sparkled as they mingled with soil and salt and sand. Their

song is eternal—a melody of old, known to fishermen and warriors, whose deepest joy

is bound to Him. The world grows black, yet dewdrops gleam with light upon the

heather, and the air grows electric with promise. The mist rises and bluebells ring upon

the hills. Scotland is a pleading prophet, representing God to the people and the people to

God. And I see Jesus in the rising tide, blood and water mixed. Wash us. We will be

pure. Dark clouds, hang low between worlds, dripping lamentations for the

unveiling of the image of God and the Sons of Light across the earth. Yes, I weep too with the

universe and nations. We groan with the earth to magnify the very face of God.

I weep the sound of rain, and in my cry, I hear the bagpipe and drum. The golden harvesters

gather their silver sickles, dancing, dancing—keeping time with the song as the sun sets.

Bonnie Saul Wilks