Toward this Tremulous Obedience

To a daughter he said,

                                Sing.

She said,

I have no time.

He said—             Sing.

She said,              I have no notes.

He said—             Sing.

She said,              My voice is weak.

He said—             Sing.

She whispered,

                Father, they will not hear.

And he answered—

                Sing.

— And, Lord, they will not like the song.

— My child, sing.

                                                And she sang,

                                                And few heard,

                                                And the world was in need of her song.

To a son he said,

                Paint.

He said,

                Even now my time is full.

He said—             Paint.

He said,                I have no colors.

He said—             Paint.

He said,                My strokes are poor.

He said—             Paint.

He cried,

                Father, they will pay no attention.

He said—

                Paint.

— My Lord, what if they reject what they see?

— My child, paint;

                It matters greatly to me.

                                                           And he put colors on canvas,

                                                           And hardly anyone saw

                                                                   (and even less were pleased)

                                                           But he painted all the same,

                                                           And the world was in need of                                                                        his painting.

He says to his daughter,

                Write.

I say,

                There is no time.

He says—            Write.

I say,                      I cannot find the words.

He says—            Write.

I say,                      My form lacks rhythm and rhyme.

He says—            Write.

I whisper,

                Father, they will neither hear nor see.

He says—

                Write.

— But Lord, they may not like what they read.

                And there is so much dark and broken—

                What if my words have no power;

                The best I can do does not heal?

— Be still, my child,

                Do not cease to feel, think, hear, see.

     Write, my child,

                And let the power belong to me.

But Moses said to the Lord, “Oh, my Lord, I am not eloquent, either in the past or since you have spoken to your servant, but I am slow of speech and of tongue.” Then the Lord said to him, “Who has made man's mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”

Exodus 4:10-12