poem: awake

Awake

It waits in silence, expectant
In its dormant position. Still
And inclined, long neck extended
From its figure-eight frame.
It can do nothing but wait
For its Musician: the One
Who understands it well enough
To evoke the beautiful song.

It was carved from a tree
For one purpose: to be held
In the hands of a Skilled
Artisan. Without Him, it is nothing—
Only wood held together with glue
Hollow on the inside, asleep.

But with Him it is everything—
Complete. He puts His fingers on the
Six strings, serrated, metallic.

Then He sings over it, rejoicing
As notes reverberate, come alive
At His command. Created chords dance
With fingertips that strum
pick, pluck, move
Rest, Effortless.

When He reaches down
To touch it—to lay His
Hands upon it—it awakes
And responds. Delighted
To complement and accompany
His voice. Together they make music.

~rjr

(reference: psalm 57:8)