My brother's voice was one of 300, earnest and focused
so the praise rang powerful, and stilled our hearts
but I wasn't riveted until they took the stage
some in wheelchairs, some shuffling and fidgety,
broken bodies and broken minds.
in between, the 'helpers', perhaps the only ones who could really sing
but the helpers were not the serious ones, oh no
those who made the less beautiful noises
were much more serious, earnest, eager
and in all this beautifulness there was a lady in one of the wheelchairs
not much hair, a bright pink bow
perhaps a little frightened
and when the spotlights fired up she winced
cowering under so much glory
it hurts our eyes, you see
and my heart sank as she covered her face with her arm
if I could, I would have said "don't! you're going to miss out on so much!"
ah, but I know the feeling
it's just too much
I am broken too
I just can't handle glory
like an Israelite cowering at the shining face of Moses
I can't even think of the glory of Yahweh!
"One day," I said to her in my heart,
"One day our eyes will be remade
and we will look on God together."
But I am not so wise as the woman in the wheelchair
just when I thought she'd sit with her arm over her face
amidst the chaotic tambourines and shakers of praise
I saw her shift
pull out a pair of sunglasses
(they were pink too)
and turn to her songbook.
I think the angels cheered.
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