She saw the mike. It beckoned her. She climbed the two steps and stood flat-footed, center stage and nodded ever so slightly. Her voice was like magic.
The crowd below waited in knowing expectation. She closed her eyes in a moment of prayer.
She smiled as she turned to the band. She was ready. Her assignment was clear. Composed, transposed, deported to a place that only the Songstress knew existed.
She sang of glory; she sang of power!
She sang hallelujah and joy!
She sang of jazz and nights at the
Cotton Club that lived in stories told
And re-told, passed down through time.
Her voice was like honey.
She sang of glory and hallelujah.
Praising the Giver of the Gift.
Her beauty dwarfed only by her voice.
She sang of blues and strange fruit,
Of how her pain had been
Overcome by joy.
I felt chosen to sit, front row center
to witness the arrival of an angel
From heaven.
She sang jazz and I swore it was gospel,
Told stories of the movement
Of sorrow, and rising
from the dust.
Telling stories wrapped in notes.
Painting pictures with the power
to heal broken hearts.
Her voice was raw, and smooth.
My worries, and tears vanished.
I sat mesmerized.
The music of a million ages were
held in her bosom.
She sang mending wounds with her voice
feeding souls with each note.
She sang
The lady sang
The blues
And salvation
She sang!
Of overcoming
Pain
Rejection
Brokenness
She sang
And told us
That Jesus cares
He loves
She sang...she sang...
Glory hallelujah...
SHE SANNNNG!
Photo credit: Josh Rocklage for Unsplash
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