Written by: Abraham Tor

He pens the pensive lines
That prick men's heart unease
And cause some strands of hair
To rise in fear of guilt.

He wears no saintly apron
But communes in truth with God
To legislate on our behalf
In glossy words that talk.

He sees beyound our world
He tells our uncertain future
Like Isaiah, the prophet
With unmistaken flair.

One wonders who He is
That heals with ink-therapy
And like Jesus on the sea
Rescuing the drowning Peter
He strikes His thinking pen
And men's eyes are opened.