Praise God

As I lay in bed, my mind restless and thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, I found myself listening to music in the hopes that sleep would soon find me. But then, a particular song by Naomi Raine, "Paul and Silas," pierced through the chaos and seized my attention.

PRE-CHORUS
Don't tell me what praise cannot do
The sound of our faith makes the mountains move
I'm not waiting til the morning I will worship You right now
I'm not waiting til the morning 

I will worship In your midnight

When the thoughts are building up just like a prison
Don't forget your song, the Father's listening
To every melody and every word
This is breakthrough
What if God is doing something brand new
There are other people coming with you
And freedom is the door we're walking through

PRE-CHORUS
Don't tell me what praise cannot do
The sound of our faith makes the mountains move
Let's build him a home with our praise
For nothing can hold back the Father's grace

I can't shake this song from my mind—it clings to my thoughts, echoing in the chambers of my memory. The melody, so hauntingly familiar, drags me back to a time when I stood amongst angels, lifting my voice in worship. Yes, once upon a time, I was part of a choir—a sanctuary where music was our prayer, our offering to the Divine. How I ended up there is a tale shrouded in mystery, a tale for another day. But what mattered most was that I had the honor of exalting God through the sacred art of song.

Our leader, Gistlain Boni, was a tenor with a soul as gentle as a summer breeze. Hailing from Rwanda, his smile was ever-present, a beacon of warmth. His hands, always in motion, danced through the air as if conjuring an invisible keyboard, playing notes only he could hear.

And then there was Nyambura, a soprano whose voice could pierce the heavens. Her notes soared effortlessly, each one more powerful than the last. Her confidence was palpable, her smile wide, revealing every pearl of a tooth—a vision of beauty and strength.

Kate, our alto, was the epitome of grace. Each note she sang was delivered with a calm precision, her voice a steady anchor in the swirling storm of sound around us. Her talent was undeniable, a gift from the heavens.

Janae, another soprano, was something otherworldly. If ever the angels had a voice, it would be hers. Her singing brought chills to the skin, silencing audiences with its purity and leaving them breathless with awe.

Yemi, who sang tenor with Kate, was a quiet soul. Hailing from Ethiopia, her voice was soft yet powerful, carrying with it the rich, exotic timbre of her homeland. She was shy, but her voice spoke with a confidence that belied her nature.

Omari and Nick, our basses, were a force of nature. Their deep, resonant voices could shake the very foundation of any building we sang in, their harmonies rumbling like distant thunder, yet full of grace.

And then there was me—a mere tenor, the least among these giants of music. My voice was untrained, my confidence shaky. When I gripped the microphone, my hands would tremble, and the notes would scatter, lost among the keys. But I was there, in the midst of these luminaries, learning, growing, and finding my own way to praise the Almighty.

Together, we were the Purifiers, a name that spoke to our mission. We blended our voices into something greater than the sum of our parts, a glorious harmony that soared to the heavens. Though I was the weakest link, the music we created was a testament to the power of unity, a celebration of the divine.

In those days, we graced many stages, our voices rising in praise, each note a prayer. And now, as this song refuses to leave my mind, I’m reminded that there is no perfect moment to praise God. The time is always now, for His praise should forever be on our lips.

Psalm 34:1 "I will bless the Lord at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth."