My Father’s Grandfather now sings from the grave;
I beg inspiration from your God to intone.
This seed seeks remembrance, the fruit of your tree;
That fell to the soil once sprouted, now grown.
North of Angel City, to the land of the hells;
A willing servant by spirit-wind blown.
Speaking for the broken, beaten in dry lands;
A man stood condemned for what he condoned.
Find a wife, add a daughter, and a son; this seed;
Such great fruit summoned the tree that had sown.
While still a bud, he learned words of power;
Calling forth fish by command from sea-foam.
But the calling had grasped him at his core;
Their divine energy animated his bones.
First in sight of the sea and scrubbed hills;
Then in the great valley he spoke under their domes.
Wife called the blind, saw to his two children;
Loved safe in the castle he carved from the stone.
Kept his good house and looked out for his needs;
So in the stead of the damned he might stand alone.
At him empty men spoke spears of cold fire;
Made outlaw unjustly, homeless he roamed.
“I have come not to seek myself but my brothers;
Grace give to the dead, to the living unknown.”
He said, “Fear not, those weak from this hunger;
For together our feasting and singing atone.”
Famine, envy and spite burst forth to do battle;
Thus knowing his fate, the scars he bid welcome.
By heaven’s good gift, each barb turned a blessing;
A lifetime of cuts carved an old face winsome.
He saw the invisible, heard the voice of the mute;
With each hand clasped made friend the lonesome.
Now this seed speaks the last truth you have given;
And repay the debt by writing this tome.
Father sang Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty;
Ever ringing out, long after God took him home.
