ELIJAH (A HYMN)
The Lord is my author
My every move, a lift of His finger
Gliding, like a pianist, tink tink tink
In the afternoon sun, on a patio
Of a resort nested in the woods
Not a plantation, there is no work here
Work is not enough, this is not a slavery
This is an art, a picture
Can you not see it, admire the swirls of its paint
Its style its own, new, opkomend
A thing that…
A thing too marvelous for us
We lose our speech, and He replaces it
With His oration