Hillsong Worship - Waiting Lyrics

Video

Waiting | Healing Place Worship

Meaning & Inspiration

My knuckles are swollen these days, and my grip on the hymnal isn’t what it used to be. I spend a lot of time sitting in the quiet now, waiting for the arthritis to settle or the afternoon to turn toward evening. When the house is this still, I find myself weighing the songs I hear against the weight of the years.

Hillsong Worship sings, "We don't fear the waiting / 'Cause we know the other side."

That line caught me. It’s easy to say when you’re young and the clock is just a suggestion. But when you’ve spent forty years navigating the kind of silence that feels like abandonment, the "waiting" isn't a brief interval—it’s the scenery. I think of Psalm 27:14, which tells us to wait for the Lord and take courage. But there’s a difference between waiting in a church pew on a Sunday morning and waiting in a hospital corridor at 3:00 a.m. When I hear these words, I have to ask: do they hold up when the "other side" looks like a closed door or a diagnosis that won’t budge?

I suppose the courage isn't in knowing exactly what the other side looks like. It’s in trusting the One who is already there, even when I can’t see the horizon.

Then there is that phrase: "With the gentle sound of a whisper / From the people of God and faith / Pushes back legions of darkness."

We like to think our worship has to be a roar to move the mountains. We’re taught to raise the volume, to push the air out until our throats ache. But there’s something biting about the truth that a whisper is enough. Elijah didn’t find God in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire; he found Him in a low, quiet murmur (1 Kings 19:12).

After all these years, my own voice is thinner, raspier. I can’t belt out the rafters anymore. But maybe that’s a mercy. Maybe the "legions" aren’t defeated by the sheer decibel level of a stadium, but by the relentless, quiet persistence of someone who has lost everything and still chooses to say the Name.

"Jesus."

It’s simple. Sometimes, when the night is long and the shadows in the corner of the room feel heavier than they should, that is the only word left. It isn't noise. It isn't a performance. It’s an anchor.

I’m still not sure if I’ve figured out how to fully let go of my own haste. I still get impatient with God’s timing. But there’s a strange comfort in realizing that while I’m waiting, He is, too. That changes the rhythm of the prayer. It means I’m not just waiting for an outcome; I’m waiting for a Presence. And if that’s the sound the Spirit is making, then I suppose I can sit here a little longer, watching the sun dip below the trees, and just listen.