Poetry

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"Rejoicing"


Then the circle forms,
hands joined,
feet stamping the dust into rhythm.

The wind moves through the branches—
unseen, yet birthing song,
as those born from above
lift their voices.

It is the Spirit poured out,
like oil running down,
like fire kindled at Pentecost,
turning the threshing floor
into a floor of praise.

The Bridegroom’s name
is carried on the breath,
and the Bride answers,
her joy rising like incense.

The feast becomes flame,
the night itself
garlanded with gladness,
a foretaste of the Supper
where the final cup is raised.











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