I never thought birds could teach a person something about their own heart. But that’s exactly what happened to me.
I was just a shepherd’s son in the hills outside Bayt Lahm — the town some call Bethlehem. You won’t find my name in any ayah of the Qur’an, but I lived in the time of Prophet Dawud — known to many as David, the great king and prophet. Every traveler spoke of his wisdom, his strength, and how he judged with justice. But what I remember most was the sound of his voice — and how the birds would answer him.
One afternoon, I journeyed with my father to deliver wool to Jerusalem, the city where Prophet Dawud ruled. As we neared the palace, we passed a high rock overlooking a quiet valley below. My father raised his hand and whispered for silence. “Listen.”
We stopped.
In the stillness, I heard it — a voice reciting the praises of Allah in a melody that wrapped around the hills. It was Dawud, reciting the Zabur — the Psalms Allah had given him. His voice was deep, full, and filled with something I could not name.
And then I noticed it — the sky above us shimmered with wings. Birds — sparrows, doves, and even eagles — hovered in the air, not flying away, but staying as if they too were listening. Some circled above, others perched on trees, their eyes focused, their beaks slightly parted, as if singing along. My heart filled with a strange feeling — peace, and awe.
Later that day, I asked an old guard near the palace, “Why do the birds gather like that when Dawud sings?”
He smiled, wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Because Allah gave him that gift,” he said. “In Surah Sad — the thirty-eighth chapter of the Qur’an — Allah tells us that He made the mountains and the birds join him in praise. It’s not just his voice—it’s the truth he speaks with it.”
I didn’t understand then. But days passed, and the memory of those birds stayed with me. I started waking before dawn, climbing the same hill every morning. I tried repeating what little I had memorized from the Book, though my voice trembled, and the words felt heavy.
One cool morning, as the sun melted the fog, I quietly recited the praise of Allah. And to my amazement, a tiny finch fluttered down and perched on a branch near me. It tilted its head. Sang a little trill.
I smiled. That morning, I didn’t feel like just a boy of a shepherd. I felt like someone who could also speak to the creation — not with a perfect voice, but with sincerity.
Now, when I speak the words of Allah, I think of Prophet Dawud. I think of justice, and gratitude, and how even birds can be brought into harmony by the truth. The truth that comes from Allah changes not just kings and prophets, but hearts like mine, too.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Sad (38:17–26) and classical tafsir detailing how Allah caused the birds and mountains to join Prophet Dawud (David) in praising Him.
I never thought birds could teach a person something about their own heart. But that’s exactly what happened to me.
I was just a shepherd’s son in the hills outside Bayt Lahm — the town some call Bethlehem. You won’t find my name in any ayah of the Qur’an, but I lived in the time of Prophet Dawud — known to many as David, the great king and prophet. Every traveler spoke of his wisdom, his strength, and how he judged with justice. But what I remember most was the sound of his voice — and how the birds would answer him.
One afternoon, I journeyed with my father to deliver wool to Jerusalem, the city where Prophet Dawud ruled. As we neared the palace, we passed a high rock overlooking a quiet valley below. My father raised his hand and whispered for silence. “Listen.”
We stopped.
In the stillness, I heard it — a voice reciting the praises of Allah in a melody that wrapped around the hills. It was Dawud, reciting the Zabur — the Psalms Allah had given him. His voice was deep, full, and filled with something I could not name.
And then I noticed it — the sky above us shimmered with wings. Birds — sparrows, doves, and even eagles — hovered in the air, not flying away, but staying as if they too were listening. Some circled above, others perched on trees, their eyes focused, their beaks slightly parted, as if singing along. My heart filled with a strange feeling — peace, and awe.
Later that day, I asked an old guard near the palace, “Why do the birds gather like that when Dawud sings?”
He smiled, wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Because Allah gave him that gift,” he said. “In Surah Sad — the thirty-eighth chapter of the Qur’an — Allah tells us that He made the mountains and the birds join him in praise. It’s not just his voice—it’s the truth he speaks with it.”
I didn’t understand then. But days passed, and the memory of those birds stayed with me. I started waking before dawn, climbing the same hill every morning. I tried repeating what little I had memorized from the Book, though my voice trembled, and the words felt heavy.
One cool morning, as the sun melted the fog, I quietly recited the praise of Allah. And to my amazement, a tiny finch fluttered down and perched on a branch near me. It tilted its head. Sang a little trill.
I smiled. That morning, I didn’t feel like just a boy of a shepherd. I felt like someone who could also speak to the creation — not with a perfect voice, but with sincerity.
Now, when I speak the words of Allah, I think of Prophet Dawud. I think of justice, and gratitude, and how even birds can be brought into harmony by the truth. The truth that comes from Allah changes not just kings and prophets, but hearts like mine, too.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Sad (38:17–26) and classical tafsir detailing how Allah caused the birds and mountains to join Prophet Dawud (David) in praising Him.
