Elevation Worship - There is A Cloud - We Receive Your Rain Lyrics
Lyrics
Hear the Word, roaring as thunder With a new, future to tell For the dry, season is over There is a cloud, beginning to swell
To the skies, heavy with blessing Lift your eyes, offer your heart Jesus Christ, opened the Heavens Now we receive, the Spirit of God
We receive Your rain We receive Your rain
Every seed, buried in sorrow You will call, forth in its time You are Lord, Lord of the harvest Calling our hope, now to arise
We receive Your rain We receive Your rain We receive Your rain We receive Your rain
Like a flood, like a flood We receive Your love When You come Like a flood, like a flood We receive Your love When You come Like a flood, like a flood We receive Your love When You come Like a flood, like a flood We receive Your love!
ooh ooh ooh
And with great, anticipation We await, the Promise to come Everything, that You have spoken Will come to pass, let it be done!.
Video
There Is A Cloud | Live | Elevation Worship
Meaning & Inspiration
I’m still shaking the dust off my coat. If you’ve spent any time in the dirt, you know what it’s like to look at a sky that’s been bone-dry for years and wonder if you’re crazy for even looking up. Elevation Worship sings, “For the dry, season is over / There is a cloud, beginning to swell,” and honestly? My first reaction is to flinch.
I’m used to the drought. I’ve made friends with the scorched earth. When you’ve been living on scraps in a pigpen, you don’t trust the clouds. You’re waiting for the heat to return, waiting for the mirage to vanish. But there’s something about the way they lean into that swelling cloud that makes my skin prickle. It reminds me of 1 Kings 18, when Elijah told Ahab the rain was coming even though the sky was brass. He sent his servant out seven times just to look at the horizon. Seven times. That’s a lot of disappointment to swallow before you see anything.
I’m still scrubbing the smell of the far country out of my hair, but this song makes me stop and squint at the horizon again. It’s not about the neat, comfortable blessings people talk about in the foyer. It’s about the fact that I didn't deserve a drop of mercy, yet here it is, threatening to soak me through.
Then there’s this line: “Every seed, buried in sorrow / You will call, forth in its time.”
That hits hard. I’ve got seeds buried in places I’m ashamed to talk about. Choices I made that I thought were final. I buried them deep, hoping they’d rot and stay forgotten. But the thought that He’s the Lord of the harvest—even of the ugly, shameful things I’ve buried—is terrifying and necessary. It means nothing is wasted. It means the sorrow wasn't the end of the plot; it was just the soil.
I don’t know if I’m ready for a flood. A flood is messy. It washes away the lines you draw in the dirt to keep people out. It ruins your shoes. But I’m tired of the drought. I’m tired of the dry, brittle version of myself I’ve been propping up.
I’m sitting here, listening to this, and I’m not entirely sure I believe the rain is coming for me. Not yet. But I’m finding myself lifting my eyes anyway. It’s a habit I’m trying to relearn. Maybe the scandal isn’t that the rain is falling—maybe the scandal is that I’m still standing here, waiting for it to hit my face. My hands are still dirty, and my theology is a wreck, but for the first time in a long time, I’m not looking down at the mud. I’m looking at the sky.