I sit where you bade me, Lord,
feeling the vapors caress me
feeling myself lift like the coils of smoke around me
feeling you slide your hand into my soul
like a puppeteer’s hand inside the puppet,
and I hear your voice.
It comes out of my mouth
answering the questions
of the ones who stand before me
as I sit shrouded in darkness.
I can see the worry on their faces that they try to hide,
here in this cave sacred to you–
the tripod in its place,
the scent of the mountain underneath me in my nostrils
and I give myself over wholly to you,
not knowing the words that emerge from my lips
before the moment that they do.
It is not my voice but your voice
not my words but your words
not my sight but your sight
and in all things, my lord,
I am only your servant, your tool,
and overjoyed to be able to do
this task for you.
Delphian, Manticus,
may I always hear Your voice
whether I gape my jaws to speak to others
or listen for You only for myself;
may I never cease to listen
may I always wait,
yearning,
heart pounding,
breathless,
for the least of Your words
is as gold and rubies to me,
and Your trust in me to do Your will
the greatest treasure of all.
All Their Voices 