The silent quill
A joy to tyrants
A dirge unto the wise
Write, dear poet, write
That all the world may triumph midst your sighs
Let not ashen winter stay your hand
Nor grief, nor wrongs, go unproclaimed
And speak to us of joy
The wonders of God
The hope of spring born rains
Yes, tell of it
Tell of it all
Tell of the despot
Send forth the call
Speak of his wrongs
Midst fierce battle songs
Tell of fate, and victory, and strife…
And speak of loves gift, the birth of new life
Speak of the winter
And her passing in spring
Write, dear poet, write
Of joy, and suffering
And in the end when the day is done
When God doth beckon everyone
Accept your crown from his true hand
“Well done, well done, as you sojourned through that land”
For you, a watchful witness in the world
Have sung of visions, and hope
Laughter, and sorrow
And the banners of nations unfurled
May it never be
That your gifted hand is stayed
For the scene doth beckon still
Stand midst His grace
And yes, dare proclaim
Speak, and speak at will:
For God shall not abide
The dirge of the Silent Quill
©2011, Kathleen MacLintock
