Trumpet
There is a trumpet in a close-by place
That summons us to all that we can be.
It counsels us quietly and with grace,
We sense it typically on bended knee.
It will not dictate to us a given way.
Rather, it knows we have every right
To do what we will . . . to have our say.
But God-knowing mortals live by its light.
The trumpet can upstage our minds
Prompting us to act when we need aid.
The faithless ignore those timely signs
Later to know their sanctity had strayed.
“You can’t go where I go,” the Lamb said.
But he promised His disciples—us, too
To send the Comforter, before He bled.
The atoning gift is ours, its tune is true.
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