My daughter was telling me about something she watched on tv last night (while I was at college) -- about someone who started a choir for homeless people. She spoke of one man who came along, off thew streets, and when asked what he would like to sing, said 'Silent Night'. They were she said, like broken people playing with holy things. I said that sounded like the first line of a poem, so with her assistance, i wrote it:
We are the broken people
Who play with holy things;
We speak our sacred phrases,
And think our words give wings.
Have mercy on us Father,
Pull out the poisoned stings.
We are the broken people,
Poor clods of dust and mud.
Pour out your grace, and melt us
Within its quickening flood;
Deliver from pretension,
And make us flesh and blood.
We are the broken people,
And yet we bear Your name;
By Your own invitation
We make this trembling claim:
Though soiled and torn and foolish
We will not be the same.
We are the broken people
Indwelt by Heaven’s King,
Confused and worn and weary,
Lost in our suffering,
We reach and clutch Your garment
And thus hold everything.
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2 comments:
Wonderful! I wonder if someone could set it to music. It seems to have that kind of spiritual feel to it, to me, at least.
Tremendous!
Powerful!
Thank you.
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