Blessed Patriarch
This a poem to you, Isaiah,
white haired, bent over your scroll,
weighed down with a vision’s burden.
Ancient prophet, whose life was in a palace,
yet servant of our King.
Your place was unique in time, chosen.
Our Father loved and trusted you.
As I read and ponder your words,
my world changes;
a polar shift occurs.
The mystery of your words
sift into spirit patterns of meaning,
the language of the Lord,
touching the center place of my soul.
Illumination bursts forth,
I know who I am now.
Chosen and set apart in the preexistence,
to write of these last days,
the songs of His heart for me.
I can see more clearly
the face of my Counselor,
my God and my King.
The heavens unroll as a scroll
because of you,
Oh, blessed of patriarchs,
Great are the Words of Isaiah.
2005 Beverly E. Field
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