Church Poem
Here
by Yalie Kamara, May 6, 2018
For Second Baptist Church of
Bloomington, Indiana
I know the hand that guides me,
its careful arch, its gentle heat, the
way it holds me closely when I’ve
at times been unsure of my own
beauty. In the emptiness of doubt,
and in the bowels of solitude, there
is a soft sweet light that flickers in the distance,
a blessed glow close enough to illuminatemy spirit,
and remind me that even in the darkest
hour, I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
I know the hand that guides me,
but not, yet, still, all of its power. What
trouble it has spared me in a myriad
of moments. How it has pulled tragedy
from my path, shadows from my midst,
and weakness from my soul. I know the
hand that guides me: it teaches me
that my gratitude is like a seed to
be watered and that my prayer is ever-
blossoming, and that my roots have become
firmer. Here. In the fellowship of this garden,
Second Baptist Church, among God’s varied
and vivacious flowers. Here. My prayer is
ever-blossoming, my roots have become firmer.
Here. I know the hand that guides me is the
same one that holds this congregation in its palm,
and that during altar call, we are lovingly fastened
in worship. And that when we praise, our words
soothe like honey, and stick like the lyrics of
the gospel song that proclaims, yes our
souls have been anchored in the Lord.
I know the hand that guides me, guides
this sanctuary, and is in the business of
miracles, that it breaks the spell of
sickness and strife between its fingers,
by Yalie Kamara, May 6, 2018
For Second Baptist Church of
Bloomington, Indiana
I know the hand that guides me,
its careful arch, its gentle heat, the
way it holds me closely when I’ve
at times been unsure of my own
beauty. In the emptiness of doubt,
and in the bowels of solitude, there
is a soft sweet light that flickers in the distance,
a blessed glow close enough to illuminatemy spirit,
and remind me that even in the darkest
hour, I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
I know the hand that guides me,
but not, yet, still, all of its power. What
trouble it has spared me in a myriad
of moments. How it has pulled tragedy
from my path, shadows from my midst,
and weakness from my soul. I know the
hand that guides me: it teaches me
that my gratitude is like a seed to
be watered and that my prayer is ever-
blossoming, and that my roots have become
firmer. Here. In the fellowship of this garden,
Second Baptist Church, among God’s varied
and vivacious flowers. Here. My prayer is
ever-blossoming, my roots have become firmer.
Here. I know the hand that guides me is the
same one that holds this congregation in its palm,
and that during altar call, we are lovingly fastened
in worship. And that when we praise, our words
soothe like honey, and stick like the lyrics of
the gospel song that proclaims, yes our
souls have been anchored in the Lord.
I know the hand that guides me, guides
this sanctuary, and is in the business of
miracles, that it breaks the spell of
sickness and strife between its fingers,
and that our best, we are assured knowing
that faith is the substance of things hoped
for, the evidence of things not seen.
I know the hand that guides me blesses
every inch of this sanctuary. And that
there is much to celebrate.
Bless the hug that waits just beyond the
church’s entrance. Bless every pew.
Bless the elegant two-step of the choir’s
procession. Bless their anointed harmony
and all the ways they tell the storm to go
elsewhere. Praise the furious language
of the tambourine and the call and response
of the clap. Praise the open mouth and its
undying love for the Lord.
Bless the deacons, ushers, parishioners,
the children, and the visitor alike.
Bless the fingers of the pianist
and the drummer’s grip.
Bless those who have made it,
praise those who are on their way.
Bless the timbre of the pastor’s voice and
the sweat on his brow.
Praise his perfect timing: how every single week
the sun begins to glisten through the stained glass
just as soon as he speaks of early Sunday mornings.
He re, we sit on North Rogers and West 8th.
Feel the divine wind that passes through the aisles.
Bless this place. Here. My forever home.
Hear us as we lift your name beyond the
ceiling of the sanctuary. Watch our praise
float upward, outward, and beneath the feathered
wing of the sparrow. Watch our praise float upward,
outward. Bless us as we animate
the air with your glory.