The Winds of Pentecost

1977 Lexington, Kentucky

By Susan Fox

The Word is come,

riding with the sons of thunder;

past the hills of crystal morning,

it flashes to the sea.

The Word is fire,

spoken in the sunrise;

it burns the living malice

of an old discarded flesh.  

It turns the rats

from the gutter,

bringing forth a clean Wind

against  an old sloth.

Call the Wind.

It comes,

struggles from a mouth

and repeats itself

in many languages.

The beggars of the earth

are deaf to thunder;

they sit with the fat rats

of the mighty gutter

and burn incense at their local altar.

We are unclean.

Go to the church and pray:

Weep for the dead lies

of our nations.

Together

we offer our hands;

In our lives,

the Word is finally spoken.