The little birds trust God, for they go singing From northern woods where autumn winds have blown, With joyous faith their unmarked pathway winging To summer lands of song, afar, unknown. Let us go singing, then, and not go crying: Since we are sure our times are in His hand, Why should we weep, and fear, and call it dying? It's merely flying to a Summer Land. R.I.P. dear Steve, you are sadly missed by everybody who knew & loved you and your ministry.