Vol 4, Num 7 :: 2005.04.08 — 2005.04.21
I like to think of Jesus singing,
Maybe something from the psalms,
To one of those melodies whose name we have?
The Dove on the Far Off Terebinths?
But whose notes are forgotten.
Or maybe not.
Maybe the wind in the trees,
The waves at the shore,
The stars in the night,
Mama?s whispered tuck in,
Are all the tune that?s never lost.
The same one his mother sang as he nursed,
Or his father as they walked together.
We listen for it, too.
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