Who are we to fall before a King on colt ascending,
palms pressed flat to scattered stones
that shake with ancient, living song?
We are adoration, lifted from the tongues of urchins,
setting play aside to ponder
what a King this King might be.
Who are we to lift our heads as eastern gates to sunrise,
seeing light we’ve seen before
as orphans through a weeping glass?
We are once-blind pupils in dilation, through stigmata
setting sight aside to wonder
what a King this King might be.
Who are we to stand within the Holy Home of worship,
sandals set aside in favor
of our washed and naked feet?
We are kin to Christ, no guest but children at the table,
setting rights aside in service
to the King this King might be.
Who are we to enter in such doors, drawn up from bone and
skin, through frames adorned like bloody
brows, pinned back with rusty nails?
We are blood-bought butchers cleansed, passed over in our feasting
on the broken blood and body
of the King this King might be.
Who are we to rise from dust and ashes in the dawning
of a Kingdom borne of sorrow,
of a King made sin for slaves?
We are witnesses of sound and fury in the making,
bursting open with the glory
of the King of Kings we see.
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