The Singer

          The following verses are from Calvin Miller's book, The Singer. The book is a poem about how Christ came to earth and saved us from our sin. I hope that this little portion blesses you. :)


His seeming madness made the
Music play a hundred times
more loudly than before.

It lured him from his highland
Home.

He left the mallet broken on
The vise and walked away

Never had he been the way he
Walked, and yet his feet knew
Every step. He could not cease
to marvel how they moved his
body forward through the
mist of circumstances which he
vaguely knew by name.

His naked feet intrigued him,
For they moved with purpose
Which his mind had not yet
Measured. Besides they each
One wore a curious scar of some
Wound as yet unopened; yet they
Had been there long before his
Birthday. What twist of meaning
Had Earthmaker given him, to
Scar his feet before he ever
Walked?

From the hills, he walked ever
Downward to the valley miles
Below.

Down, down, down – until the
Vegetation thickened into
Shrubs, and the desert gave
way to river jungles.

And there where water lapped
At his fatigue, he heard a
Singer, singing his compelling
carols to the empty air.

The tradesman knew that it was just
An earth song, for it was
Different from the Star-Song
Which begged him to be its singer –
Yet somehow like it.

The River Singer finished and
They walked into the trees.

“Are you the Troubadour, who
Knows the Ancient Star-Song?”
The tradesman softly asked.

“No, you are the Great Troubadour
For whom the songless world,
So long has waited,” the
River Singer said. “Sing, for many
Years now, I have hungered
To hear the Ancient Star-Song…”

“I am a tradesman only…”

Then the River Singer waded out
Into the water and beckoned
With his hand. Slowly
The tradesman followed.

They stopped waist-deep in
Water. Their eyes swam and
They waited for the music
To begin.

It did.

The tradesman knew the River
Singer heard it too.

The water swirled around them
And the music surged.

Every chord seemed to fuse the
World in oneness.

They stood until the surging
Current buried them in song.
It then receded and the music
Died away.

And the river was once more a simple river.

Then over that thin silver
Stream the thunder pealed, and
A voice called from the sky
Above…

“Tradesman! You are
The Troubadour! Go
Now and sing!”

…

He was not alone when he awoke.

The ancient World Hater had
Come upon his resting place
And not by chance.

The Hater leered at him with
One defiant, impish grin.

“Hello Singer!”

“Hello, World Hater.” The
Troubadour responded.

“You know my name, old friend
Of man?”

“As you know mine, old enemy of
God.”

“What brings you to the desert?”

“The Giver of the Song!”

“And does he let you sing it
Only in these isolated spots?”

“I only practice here to sing it
In the crowded ways!”

It was hard to sing before the
World Hate, for he ground each
Joyous stanza underneath his heel.

The music only seemed to make
the venom in his hate more
bitter than before.

The Hater drew a silver flute
From underneath his studded
belt. He placed it to his
Leathered lips drawn tight to
Play a melody.

The song surprisingly was
sweet. It filled the canyon
with an airy-tine and hung its
lingering reverberations mysteriously
in every cleft. It
rippled on the very ground
around their feet.

A strange compulsion came upon
The Singer. Furiously he wanted
So to sing the Hater’s tune.

He barely staunched the eager
urge to sing.

The morning sun glinted fire
Upon the silver flute. The music
And the dazzling light appeared
To mesmerize the Singer.

“You must not sing the Hater’s
Song,” the Father-Spirit cried,
“Be very careful, for I love you,
Troubadour.”

“Now,” cried the World Hater,
“Let’s do this tune at once.
I’ll pipe, you sing. Think of
The thousand kingdoms that will
Dance about our feet.”

“No, Hater, I’ll not sing your melodies.”
The Troubadour replied.

“What then Singer, will you sing?”

“The Ancient Star-Song of the
Father-Spirit.”

“Alone, without accompaniment?”

“Yes, Hater, all alone if need be.”

“You need my pipe, man.”

“You need my song instead.”

“The music of your song is far
Beyond my tiny pipe.”

“Then go! For I shall never sing
A lesser piece.”

Then all at once the Troubadour
Began again. The mountains
Amplified his song. It swirled
As sunlit symphony, until
The Hater put his pipe beneath
His belt and fled before
The song of love.

“Beloved Singer, beware the
World-Hater,” The Father-Spirit said.

Then upward there the Singer
Stretched his arms and said
Again, “I love you, Father-Spirit.”

He waited there a moment while
The sky embraced him and then
He walked away. Ahead he saw
The cities rise, and people
Thronged the crowded ways.

-Calvin Miller, The Singer

~Riah