Numbly perform before the crowd
the sign of the cross,
a bow before the altar,
a melody or two.
Why do they burn us?
We are no sirens,
and song is no witchcraft,
not the kind they douse with holy water.

Lift up your hands to the sanctuary
and bless,
But do not let them meet.
Do not praise.
Your God is not found in music and dancing,
though he cries for the horns,
begs for a drum,
weeps with longing for harp.

You give him a voice,
monotone with no emotion.
Is this how you hear him?
A drone in your ear,
harsh admonishment,
one voice,
or silence?

My God is music.
He sings in the breezes,
in the hum of the earth,
the clapping and stomping,
the praise.
He is the breath in my lungs,
the words on my lips,
the touch of fingers on string.
His voice is many,
raised up in song,
raised up in the praising,
raised up in the "Hallelujah! Amen!"

Why don't you hear him,
those with ears among us?
You are not deaf.
You are dead among the living prayer.