by Ken Sehested
Is there no song to be sung, no bell to be rung, no laughter from the fields at play with their yield? Would that my mouth be formed and my lips unleashed to speak a word, a true and hearty word, to all grown deaf with grief.
Make our tongues worthy—make them constant and true—to sustain the weary with a word.
Morning by morning my Sovereign awaits my wakeful embrace of the dawn. My ears rise, eager, despite my heart’s meager consent to the summons of grace.
Make our tongues worthy—make them constant and true—to sustain the weary with a word.
Though the day brings reproach, and enemies approach, I vow no transaction in spite. Whatever befall me, no shame will ensnare me, my lungs draw unmeasured delight.
Make our tongues worthy—make them constant and true—to sustain the weary with a word.
Who then will contend, or with malice descend with a heart made bitter with blame? No longer shall dread rear its fraudulent head, for my Vindicator stands by my way.
Sisters, stand up together; brothers, rise and declare: A Champion is stationing near, to forge tongues that are worthy, and constant and true, to sustain the weary with a word.