A Suite

A Suite

(“Say to all the people of the land and to the priests: When you have fasted and mourned in the fifth and seventh months even these seventy years, did you really fast for Me—for Me?” Zechariah 7:5)

Like a guitar trying to pluck its own strings, we sing to prove,
we dance to earn, and spurn the free embrace love created
when it invented our shape, our tone; space our scales and
semi-tones to pleasure’s hearing.

While You freewheel good, we invent exact,
we bow, surrender, keep the balance black;
while You give prizes, first to last.

Had we missed a note in our songs
(over and over, like dolphins being trained
we push it to the edges, synchronizing our best efforts
with our best ideas of what You want)
we slop our cry and drag our imperfection around
like we think it is the cross You asked us to bear.

Had we hit each note in our solo
(only and only, like daredevils flaming
we push it to the edges, being sure the blaze and
thunder are big and best enough for Your approval)
we straighten our spines and never look back
like we think it is the position You now owe us.

Like a guitar created by a lover of wood and sound,
skill set against skill, passion for the painting ignoring the frame,
we wait for You to play (not better than we have attempted)
the music that shifts there to here and then to now
in one laced movement; a suite that tells the story
we had been trying to hear.