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