The Song

In dark dreary church,
In suffer torn city of pain,

She took seat at the keys,
Silent fingers poised,
In grief smothered pause.

Before notes pierced the night.
Hope tumbled,
It rose

In ripples, in waves,
It pushed and it gave,
Filling the church,
Defying the dark.

Rebellion it whispered
In soft constant chords,
Hope mid the darkness,
Light mid the night.

It took its path
Meandering, inviting, calling,
It wove

Through streets and homes,
Over marble door steps,
Through alleys so drear
“Come” it whispered in ear.

And some took notice
Of soft swelling tide.
And to see
turned aside.

One by one the gathering grew
Until a voice lifted too
A song with the chords

Then another
And one more
In small lonely church.

Till the song raised immortal,
With glad hopeful praise.
It swelled in spite of the night.

It mounted past the dark
And reached heaven’s ears
And touched Father’s heart.

Together it swelled with
Myriad others along
Until it echoed with eternity’s song.

“Is He worthy?”
And all knew the answer to give.

And vast were the numbers
Of lonely piano players,
Of soft solo singers,
Of little lone churches.

Their songs forged in one
From every people and
Kindred and nation and tongue.

When finally they stood
And anthem they raised:

“He is.”