Ma-la-la

“Ma-la-la.” Like soft music from on high
The simple syllables arise and flow.
Sweet iambs sing, “Ma-la-la You-saf-zai.”

What melody mellifluous? And why?
That lifts my soul from dolors dark and low,
“Ma-la-la,” like soft music from on high.

Or violins heard gently drawing nigh
To comfort hearts that pain or sadness know,
Sweet iambs sing, “Ma-la-la You-saf-zai.”

Or zephyrs through the wild flower that sigh,
Or birdsong from the woodland as I go,
“Ma-la-la,” like soft music from on high.

A goodness undergirds the world, and I
Now hear it from the hills where poppies blow.
Sweet iambs sing, “Ma-la-la You-saf-zai.”

Old men despair and cannot put grief by,
But youthful hearts and hope are never so.
“Ma-la-la.” Like soft music from on high,
Sweet iambs sing, “Ma-la-la You-saf-zai.”