Comes the sound of the king's harp,
And like the incense of the spike-
The voice of David praising God
floats grandly to the stars!
To his shepherd heart an altar
stands beneath each living tree,
Each plot of grass becomes a holy
And the wild spaces are Jehova's
Yet, he plans a temple built of
Girt round with ivory and inlaid
But says a hand that's greater still
Of whom the prophet Nathan hath
Shall raise the temple up, not he,
the man of many wars,
Not King David of the bloody
Such strange misgivings trouble me
Whether I am indeed the king's
For who can trust a man of many
And yet, no kingly whim should
For this I know, nor need the
The thing that moves beneath my
Is a man child.
Here I create a king!
It matters not if David sing or
Whether my lord has any favorite,
What discourse he holds with
These trivial things
Touch not the Purpose that is in
The music stops. The king comes?
Tell him I am weary and would
Why should I bother with the king
What I encompass is the king to be,
I hold the fate of Israel !
I do not praise God, I contend with
Wrestle as Jacob wrestled all night
And take by force the blessing.
__Elizabeth N. Barr.
The High Winds of Home
Elizabeth N. Barr
(Olathe: privately published. 1922)