Tongue of Angels

A Magpie Tale

"Let me out, that I may sing!"
The sculptor hears the plea, his art
to coax the lively parts
from the silent stone.
Chiselling, polishing, bit by bit
her face emerges, song so sweet,
singing praises to the Divine
that his heart hums,
but his voice cannot express.  He shows
his faith the only way he knows:
through diligent hard work.

Complete, he fixes her high on the wall.
Aloft, she calls, inspiring
perspiring mortals to rest within,
to sing the joyous song of redeeming love.

Few have ears to hear.
Time passes.
Faith falters.
Chapels crumble.

The mason's art is replaced by bricks,
cinder blocks, reinforced concrete:
men's mimicry of stone,
fashioned in their own image,
to their liking.

Few remain who remember.
Appeals fail
to raise the fallen angel
from her pile of rubble.

Within she faithfully waits,
eyes lifted, lips poised
to join the mountains' shouts of joy,
to give tongue with the stones
when the Creator comes again.