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Poetry

The Psalmist said, “Lord, how shall I not
call thy name?” The hills were green with
his wonder and the birds flew filled
with singing, so he sang, “Lord, how shall I
not know thee upon the mountain
when thy sheep are the great stars of heaven,
thy horn the sun and moon, and all the fields
bloom as thy glance approves?”

Under meditative graces of the trees, the Psalmist

sat him down without hindrance or favor.
Under his gaze rivers ran glinting among cedars
toward the dark blue paths strewn
with rushes and bordered with white stones.
And who did the Psalmist chance to see walking there
but the Lord and the Lord’s loneliness, that friend
so much like ourselves
and so lost in what cannot be done about it.


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