In the Beginning Was the Poetry

Oh! The poetry of "The power and Glory"! I recall chant and call of that Gospel Story, In storefront churches, all across the land. Where heat was stirred, but not dispelled by the waving of little cardboard fans. As towering be-robed preachers shouted exposition in magnificent thunderous oratory! Sweat-slick glistening black faces; stalking,prowling the precincts of the pulpit, moaning and growling; "I don't think you heard me! Can I get a amen?" Teaching grace and mercy, greater than all sin. Stories of how our dear Lord, set the captives free- Daniel in the den, Jonah in the fish, Shadrach- Meshach, Abednego;" Lord, why not deliver po' me?"! How deaf did speak; sight restored to the blind And ,the sisters shout, and the deacons holler And a few get happy and almost lose their mind. And, those words washed, like waves, over us Accounts of firey chariot and wheels in wheels, presented in rhythm and rhyme, simile and alliteration. Oh the mighty poetry, that called the lost to salvation! Those sunday morning poet-prophets who orated recounting judgement seats and high lifted-up thrones They left me with a lingering, linguistic legacy that just like Jeremiah's God-sent prophecy Creates a need for expressing, "like fire shut up in my bones." If I should try to refrain from speaking, the very rocks would sing. The words are in me, moving and, I just can't hold my peace!