The Heavenly Host

So doth the Word of God
Dwell in paper or in flesh?
Does the Eternal Spirit sing
In poems or in breath?
For the poet liveth now,
And the prophet liveth, too,
But the man of flesh who writes these words
Will die as all men do.
But the Word, it liveth on,
And in new men does dwell,
Where they contrast the Heavenly songs
Against the pens of Hell.
For geese arise in February,
Above a frozen lake,
And though their song be one word long,
The Spirit it doth quake.
For honk from one long neck
Is multiplied by two,
Then soon the two are four, then more,
Then more be added, too.
For when a thousand geese
Swirl 'round above my head,
As I there stand upon the ground,
Still living, not yet dead.
I hear the Spirit sing,
And there within me hear,
The Word of God writ on my heart
And whispered in my ear.
And what it is, God says:
I am, and always will,
For I have been since being was,
Continuing until,
The Spirit hath not will to be,
And only then be still.
For God's eternal voice
Lives only where there's life,
And I assure you, reader, that
This man's alive who writes.
But when this flesh is dead,
And set upon a shelf,
Look no more to this man in who
This life of God has dwelt.
For in that corpse of mud,
That melts within the soil
You will find not a word
That tells you, Yes!
The Spirit bless!
Within me, too, I've heard
That still, same voice
Who gives a choice
To choose or life or death,
For that is He, the Word Who Be,
In me and in His host.