As You tell me, Father, even so I'll tell—
though mute as I am before such unfathomed love
still overhung with reverence
and so fenced with silence I demur to speak—
but as You tell me, Father, I will turn to tell
and lift the gate on the swell of pasture where
You've tethered me at last, proclaiming, even as You loose me
how the sweet yoke of Your love impels me on.
I'll speak of that. And more. Whatever You prompt me,
Father. The words, the voice, the witness, now
begun, the teller and the told are one.
