Logjammed

  ELIJAH (A HYMN)

  The Lord is my author

  My every move, a lift of His finger

  Gliding, like a pianist, tink tink tink

  In the afternoon sun, on a patio

  Of a resort nested in the woods

  Not a plantation, there is no work here

  Work is not enough, this is not a slavery

  This is an art, a picture

  Can you not see it, admire the swirls of its paint

  Its style its own, new, opkomend

  A thing that…

  A thing too marvelous for us

  We lose our speech, and He replaces it

  With His oration