Marcos Witt - Si Puedes Creer Lyrics
Lyrics
Si pudes creer las monta?as se mover?n
Los enfermos se sanar?n, tu vida Dios cambiar?
Si pudes creer los cielos se abrir?n
Su gloria descender? su fuego te abrazar?
Coro:
Si puedes creer su gloria ver?s, su amor sentir?s, su poder tocar?s
Si puedes creer demonios huir?n, cadenas caer?n, tendr?s libertad
Si puedes creer x3
Video
Marcos Witt - Si Puedes Creer
Meaning & Inspiration
My hands are spotted now, the skin like parchment paper I’ve been folding and unfolding for seventy years. I sat here in the quiet of the evening, the house settled into its creaks, and listened to Marcos Witt. It’s funny how a song that demands so much movement—mountains shifting, chains hitting the floor—lands differently when your own legs barely want to carry you to the kitchen for a glass of water.
"Si puedes creer," he sings. If you can believe.
It’s a heavy invitation. When I was thirty, I thought belief was a hammer. I thought if I just swung it hard enough against the stubborn granite of my problems, things would break. I wanted the mountains to move because I was tired of climbing them. I wanted the sickness to flee because I was terrified of the fragility of my own frame.
But sitting here now, with the sun dipping below the fence line, I find myself hung up on that little word: Si. If.
It’s a conditional doorway. We read in Mark 9 about the father who brought his son to Jesus, crying out, "I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!" That’s where the truth of it lives, isn’t it? It isn’t in the iron-clad confidence of a man who has never lost anything. It’s in the shaking, desperate confession of the man who has lost everything and still stands there, palms up.
Witt sings about the glory descending and the fire embracing. I remember the fires. Some were warm, and some burned me right down to the marrow. There were years where the mountains didn’t move an inch. They stayed right where they were, looming and cold, blocking the view of the horizon. And yet, the glory? It didn't arrive as an earthquake or a lightning strike. It arrived in the middle of the silence, in the way a friend sat with me in a waiting room, or in the stillness of a morning where I woke up breathing even though my heart felt like it had stopped days ago.
Does it feel like young man’s noise? Maybe. There is a certain buoyancy in these notes that feels far away from the aches of an old man’s knees. But there is a stubbornness in the rhythm that I recognize. It’s the sound of someone refusing to let go of the hem of the garment.
I’m left wondering about the freedom he promises—the chains falling. I’ve seen chains fall, yes. But I’ve also seen people learn to walk with a limp. Is that, too, a kind of freedom? To stop pretending we are bulletproof? Perhaps the greatest thing to believe is that He stays even when the mountain stays put. I don’t have an answer for why some are healed and some are carried home, but as the music fades, I find I’m still listening. The lights are dimming, the strength is thin, but the invitation to believe? It’s the only thing that keeps the room from feeling empty.