With Everything We've Got

There are churches who consider instruments a sin,
that don't allow fingers to fondle drumsticks
or caress chords on keyboards,
prohibit wrists from shaking tambourines, 
won't let lips and mouths wet reeds or blow trumpets.
Voices, yes, but not the rest. Sacrilege!
Voices hurt and curse far more than
fingertips that trill a flute, pick banjo, strum guitar. 
Forgive them, Lord,
for they know not what they do.
There are churches that look askance at holy dance,
forgetting that while we're Adam's kids, prone
to wander and to fall, Dad was made in God's image,
feet fit to jump, bodies built to twirl
and whirl in tempo to the kingdom's orchestra.
Forgive them, Lord,
for they know not what they do.
Clap your hands, all ye people, roll hips and
tap feet until the music gets so deep inside you
have to move for sheer joy
or explode right where you stand.
All fall down from time to time, but 
let some collapses be from exhaustion,
as children do when they play so hard
their laughter wears them out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012