Pentecost poem

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What does this strange story mean,
Of something heard, and something seen,
A violent wind, hurricane roar,
That fell from heaven, slipped through door?

Yes what strange power filled that place
Through corridor and room did race,
That swelled with such majestic sound,
And rooted each one to the ground?

And what to make of ‘tongues of fire’,
That did not hurt, but did inspire,
That this strange day, did not consume,
But rested on those in that room?

What Spirit made them shout aloud,
What strange commotion drew the crowd,
And what divine mysterious art
Produced such languages of the heart?

Was it that they were humble, pure,
And ready for such presence sure,
With hearts receptive, like a child,
To heed a power so raw and wild?

And what of us, who count and measure,
Could we receive heart-stopping treasure,
Could we, who think we know so much,
Accept that melting, humbling touch?

Audio with music bed:
Image by Holger Schué from Pixabay

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