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The Anointed Poet
The page is blank,
whiter than white,
and it waits for fiery
Fingertips
to dance upon its surface.
The Words come
like rain,
some rhyme,
and keep time,
and some are simple,
but profoundly prophetic
and gracefully
without meter.
The pen shakes
in trembling hands
as the Father’s voice
breaks through the barriers
of flesh.
“I don’t understand.”
“But you will.
The words do not belong
to the poet.”
Soon enough,
tongues of fire
quicken the heart
and release a river
of poetry.
I am undone,
dead but alive.
Who is this King of Glory?
A page is turned.
My fingertips burn.
The Father hands me
His pen.
Open, oh ye mysteries.
Pour out a brand new song
brought forth from ancient history
that the saints might sing along.
Poetic spirit of grace
fills blank pages with signs
of wonder in liquid ink
and a fire between the lines.
A blank page
floats in space,
knowingly awaits
the anointed poet.
And the poet waits
for the dance
of Fiery fingertips
to direct the flow
of ink.
Give me another blank page.
© 2007
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