Our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days,
Pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.
v. 1 “O, Worship the King”
The hymn we sang at the knee of our mother
who taught us the harmonies learned
in her childhood, who rejoiced in the sound
of her daughters singing, singing the worship
of God, the Ancient of Days.
Truest of all the titles of God, whose eye
is that of the oldest elephant present
on the day of creation; an eye not so weighty
with justice as mercy, a compassion so deep
it disappears into the heart of one who sees it,
to be mined only for God’s adornment and purpose.
I lay this salver down before you
with the song I sing a thing of gold
upon it, my intention to please in
an act of love. Like Farmer Hoggett
in the movie Babe, who sang and danced
the pig back to health, I would if I could
dance for you like David before the Ark
where you dwelt alone. Would you
feel less alone with my song? sung
in a voice old and unpracticed?
and what I have to offer
to you whom I love.
Glory to God in the highest
in the lowest, the basest, and
in the beautiful, Glory to God.
All of it, all of it, the high, the low
and in the middle, where we meet
to talk in tones detectable only
to Spirit who deeply resides
in each crumb of creation, human
or otherwise, no less, no more
beautiful to me, Creator of all
of life, the Source, I care for
with supernal love, tender and
fierce. At the same time, I Am
writing history with my left hand,
and you are the ink on the page.