Hymn Eleven (Unsung)

Somewhere, sometime, we flip eyes to a threshing floor,
drop chaff stubble under shaky foot—chaff stubble crushed
by oxen
hooves. The floor worn smooth, our hearts irrevocably sore,
and once sibilant voices now hushed
in penitent awe. Then

we reckon blessings. The Great Good Granter delivers our
daily bread, though toil sweat is always needed.
What today
we lack, we receive. Yesterday’s stores seem to sour.
When wants arise, conflicts brew, commands go unheeded,
we lose His way,

and the floor remains, waiting the coming rumble.
Gravity is God’s law. So is the sudden fall.
Like Uzzah with hands out
and up, we no-think reach to catch another man’s bumble,
the tragic tumble of good intent misdeed. Scrawledin our song voices warbles our winnowing doubts.

Michael P. Carriger