The poem is a short, slightly puzzling meditation on what happens to words when they are sung by a crowd. Its opening line suggests that a church might be familiar with rain, and the link seems to be sound: many voices rising together can wash over a room the way a downpour does, a steady blur rather than distinct drops.
The speaker then makes a bold claim. Singing with many voices, they say, isn't really singing but "a sort of instrumental music." The voices stop being people saying things and become texture, like strings or pipes. The last lines push this further: words are "lost by being heard," as if listening wears meaning away. The phrase "in the style of scripture" hints that sacred language may work this way, valued more for its sound and solemnity than for being understood.
The mood is quiet, thoughtful, and a little wry. The speaker seems fascinated and mildly regretful at once, enjoying the beauty of the sound while noticing what it costs.