Most tender of foot
Most native of sons
threshing paths in the wild
To the River is He bound
to the fountain of life within me
The sweat darts down his back
around the curve of straining spine
Eyes blurred, straining with oar in hand
he works the wood toward heaving chest
and pushes away as the whip snaps
The chains scrape wood and flesh
as on to Promised Land he labors
Believe in the Captain above
and the bloodied flag unfurled
Believe in the destination
and the glories still to come
In the end he'll hear the news
that the war was won long ago
It is like a sound -
a faint and brittle rise and fall
at the edge of an abyss, submerged and stirring
My steps turn toward it naturally
like walking toward a thousandth dawn
or a lifetime's rush of scented breeze
I can hear the sound of a world, ageless and wise
turning to meet me on altar's edge
a knock on revelation's door
and I can't help listening
Can it be nothing more than humanity -
or nothing less than the breath of God
stirring in this thawed design