For heights and depths, no words can reach,
Music is the soul's own speech.
It burns of passion, a beauteous flame.
It ignites with anger, a scorching pain.
It soothes the heart and calms the mind,
It scorches pride and comforts shame.

For heights and depths, no words can reach,
Music is the soul's own speech.
The love of ages, caught within,
Shines out with burning, passionate sin,
But more the tender, gentle kiss,
The adoration without bitterness.

For heights and depths, no words can reach,
Music is the soul's own speech.
The burning anger, the melancholy tale,
A towering injustice, the bitter trail.
A crying voice, vowing justice.
Lays low, resentment, strong and frail.

For heights and depths, no words can reach,
Music is the soul's own speech.
The song it weaves, a flowing stream,
It Washes past with cleansing steam.
It flows away and when it's gone,
The baptized shine with innocent gleam.

For heights and depths, no words can reach,
Music is the soul's own speech.
The built up pride of venerable king,
Now crushed by Music's soothing ring.
And then the lowly peasant child.
To her does Music contentment bring.

For heights and depths, no words can reach,
Music is the soul's own speech.
The seasons pass, the years roll on.
The centuries die, the past is gone.
Behold, one lonely herald stands.
Music lasts, it time transcends.