Bath-Sheba

How sweetly through the silent pal-
ace courts
Comes the sound of the king's harp,
And like the incense of the spike-
nard
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
place,
And the wild spaces are Jehova's
house.

Yet, he plans a temple built of
stone,
Girt round with ivory and inlaid
with gold;
But says a hand that's greater still
than his,
Of whom the prophet Nathan hath
foretold,
Shall raise the temple up, not he,
the man of many wars,
Not King David of the bloody
sword.

Such strange misgivings trouble me
of late,
Whether I am indeed the king's
favorite,
For who can trust a man of many
loves ?

And yet, no kingly whim should
trouble me,
For this I know, nor need the
prophet's word:
The thing that moves beneath my
heart
Is a man child.
Here I create a king!
It matters not if David sing or
weep,
Whether my lord has any favorite,
What discourse he holds with
Nathan,
These trivial things
Touch not the Purpose that is in
my soul.
The music stops. The king comes?
Tell him I am weary and would
sleep.

Why should I bother with the king
that is?
What I encompass is the king to be,
I hold the fate of Israel !

I do not praise God, I contend with
Him,
Wrestle as Jacob wrestled all night
long
And take by force the blessing.

^__Elizabeth N. Barr.

The High Winds of Home
Elizabeth N. Barr
(Olathe: privately published. 1922)
Pages 37-38