Give thanks for all things
On the plucked lute, and likewise
The harp of ten strings.
Have the lifted horn
Greatly blare, and pronounce it
Good to have been born.
Lend the breath of life
To the stops of the sweet flute
Or capering fife,
And tell the deep drum
To make, at the right juncture,
Pandemonium.
Then, in grave relief,
Praise too our sorrows on the
Cello of shared grief.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Nice poem, even if it doesn't rhyme. I was reading Psalm 148 this morning. The psalmist tells all creatures, including old men (that's you, Dave, despite Mr. Toad's Wild Ride into the hinterlands of Va. on the hog) to "praise the name of the Lord, for His name alone is exalted, His splendor is above the earth and the heavens. He has raised up for his people a horn (I think it's a tuba), the praise of all His saints, of Israel, the people close to His heart. Praise the Lord.
ReplyDelete