​Heat has fallen away;
   coolness has returned to the desert.
I am as a finch bathing in a desert spring
   ancient as the sea, dark as an owl
risen with the moon.
 
Look! the moon transforms the night
   into the garden of our Lord;
her face glistens with pleasure.
   Here the lesser-light is honored;
her renown spreads, spiraling
   outward from our refuge
to embrace the rushes and sawgrass,
   the sedges and pickerelweed.
  
The noonday glare is forgotten.
   The waters stir with song and lyre;
the evening stars sing,
   welcoming all to gather round
the well of Jehovah.
   The morrow will come
(as it ever will)
   but this night we take no thought
for the morrow.

None shall thirst again;
   wine flows as sweetly as spring
bringing warmth to mountain snow;
   my Lord's wine fills the dry places
where drought once etched its name
   and washes away the grief of day.
For none looked for floods
   where cactus water was precious,
where fire burned sand and sky:
   none but those who waited upon the Lord.
 
The smell of gladness like cinnamon
   fills the night; lilies and spikenard
make our hearts to rejoice―
   for He is here! here
His presence fills the garden
   as a rose
whose petals hold their perfume
   forever and ever.