Pentecost

God’s hov’ring Breath above the deep
Drew from the new-created crust
The brush, the fruit which men would reap,
And heads of wheat whose upward thrusts
Sprout grain for baking into loaves.

Then like a mighty, rushing gust
The Spirit filled Christ’s Brother-Band
Whose language left the men of dust
To marvel as God’s second Hand
Stretched o’er the field that Peter sowed,

To start the Feast of Pentecost.
Yes, God went out amongst his sheaves—
Those “white-for-harvest” “once-were-losts”—
And spoke that Sickle which both grieved
And harvested three thousand souls.

And revelation poured like wine
While grateful hymns thrust up with sighs
As Breath-of-God then bound with Twine
That Brother-Band before their eyes,
Which bears its fruit like olive groves.