Sacred Mumbled Werds (by Mark Nielsen, begun 10-15-11, stowed away incomplete, then completed [or maybe not yet?!] on 10-10-12)
Your Word, it moves my tongue.
My lips: Your praising drum.
My teeth: Your piano keys.
But as for ears, Lord, heal them please.
My feet tap to Your dance,
but do I stand a chance?
I’m out of step with You,
yet these others give me the Jeremiah Blues.
It’s like there’s some secret I wasn’t told,
and now its’s too late, I’m useless and old,
…too many years spent clearing my throat,
experiments and off-key notes,
yet never that memorable tune, that thing
that sums it up, a truth that rings.
A tune so simple, but hard to accept.
(For at denial we are adept–
and faith, in the age of science, seems silly,
like “Who’s to say what’s true now, really?”)
So mine is a misspelled sacred werd,
a stuttered blessing barely heard,
a blind man’s warning politely unheeded,
a “white elephant” refused, not needed,
a sapling falling in a forest,
a cry unheard over the chorus
of cheesy chaotic tribal chants
and trending petty partisan rants.
Mostly Your still small voice just mumbles,
while drums of war continue to rumble.
You said “to inherit the earth, be humble”,
but I fear all I’ll ever do is stumble.