In homely church on lonely hill
the prayers born of hope are stored,
a warehouse small with whispers filled,
reserves of longing for the Lord.
Around the church the roses grow;
they bloom with sunrise-smiles bright,
the confidence of those who know
that darkness loses to the light.
The hopes are small; you cannot see
their turnings save in brilliant flame;
they dance in subtle verses free
like children hiding in a game,
and some dissolve, the bubble breaks,
upon the wind, by time resolved;
but some grow strong, a dream that wakes,
an angel from a breeze evolved.
A Song of David
Less was I than all my brothers,
youngest of my father's sons,
simple shepherd of the flocks,
ruler of the kids and goats.
Flute I fashioned from the reed;
harp my fingers shaped most fair;
glory gave I to the Lord.
Mountains cannot tell His splendor;
hills cannot proclaim His Name.
Take my words, O tall-topped trees,
sing my melodies, baaing sheep.
Who can thus declare or speak?
God our Lord has seen all things;
He has given His attention.
Prophet He sent with holy oil:
Samuel came to grace my brow.
Out my brothers went to meet him,
handsome-formed and handsome-faced.
Tall they were; their hair was thick.
God did not anoint them kings.
Fetched was I from behind the flock,
oil pure poured on my head,
prince He made me of His people,
ruler in His covenant.