THE RISING

There! See those magnificent pinions -
Exploding colors like rainbows at war -
They rule with the skies. Such majesty!
The rolling thunder tickles him.
He frolicks with the speeding brightness.
Raging storms are his minions:
He rides the winds with ubiquitous delight.
He leads the mountains when they dance
The foxtrot, the waltz, or the jig -
The breakdance, the salsa, or the grind.
They rumble and belch fire and ash,
His restful slumber persists unbroken.
He unfolds majestic wings, the lightning blushes.
Beyond reach, they say. In my hand, says he.
Rare to sight, but nothing's hid from him.
With awe they tell his story. A legend, they declare.
A myth, they insist. But he was drawn
From the slimy pits of fallen humanity,
Cleaned and schooled that in bending the knee
To the Highest, he rose above the stars;
In bowing his head before Majesty,
Creation's Lord he was named.
Who knows Power but he that is weak?