To Go By Singing

by Wendell Berry

He comes along the street, singing,

a rag of a man, with his game foot and bum's clothes.

He's asking for nothing--his hands

aren't even help out. His song

is the gift of singing, to him

and to all who will listen.

To hear him, you'd think the engines

would all stop, and the flower vendor would stand

with her hands full of flowers and not move.

You'd think somebody would have hired him

and provided him a clean quiet stage to sing on.

But there's no special occasion or place

for his singing--that's why it needs

to be strong. His song doesn't impede the morning

or change it, except by freely adding itself.

Evening Concert, Sainte-Chapelle

by John Updike

The celebrated windows flamed with light

directly pouring north across the Seine;

we rustled into place.  Then violins

vaunting Vivaldi's strident strength, then Brahms,

seemed to suck with their passionate sweetness,

bit by bit, the vigor from the red,

the blazing blue, so that the listening eye

saw suddenly the thick black lines, in shapes

of shield and cross and strut and brace, that held

the holy glowing fantasy together.

The music surged; the glow became a milk,

a whisper to the eye, a glimmer ebbed

until our beating hearts, our violins

were cased in thin but solid sheets of lead.

The Gospel According to Helena

(c) 2007, Linford Detweiler, Over the Rhine

Damn

She loves to sing

She knows she may not even be that good

What does it mean when somebody

Loves to do something

So much

She

Doesn't care

Whether or not

It makes any sense to the world

What does it mean when somebody

Does something just because

It makes her feel more alive

Opens her eyes

What does it when somebody

Does something just because 

She's missing God

And wonders if she always will

She must know that all good songs

Are a form of prayer