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Pentecost
By Chris Carter
I long for Pentecost flame,
a blazing tongue articulating
praise thread by the crackle
of sacred letters, heaven-ward
syllables leaping like the Spirit
burning above my brow.
Yet in this quiet moment
when the wood has gone to ash
and the embers are a memory
of life once ablaze,
my tongue lies dumb and
heavy in my mouth, a tomb
for worship without life.
But still you burn,
a small blaze set on candle,
a flickering light holding
vigil against the night,
for Pentecost fire is but
Noah’s dove seeking
a steady wick to
hold its flame.