from Calvin Miller's The Singer
Humanity is fickle.
They may dress for a
morning coronation and
never feel the need to
change clothes to
attend an execution in
So Triumphal Sundays
and Good Fridays
always fit comfortably
into the same April
'"Halana to the Troubadour,
Earthmaker's only Son."
'Through the ancient city gates the joy
echoed down the plaster canyons and
drubbed its cadence over cobblestones.
The cry became a tumult in the city,
Joy to the Earth,
The Troubadour has come
Make ready for the Song of Life.
A thousand dancers swelled the streets
and instruments of music gathered up
the merriment of the holiday. Every
street cried out the newness of the
singing age that came to close
the joyless era that had gone before.
The music swept through every city street
and purged the evil and the sin
before it. The Hater dropped his
pipe and barely could retrieve it
from beneath the thousand driving feet.
The Song had come, and for one
swelling surge of love there was
no room for hate.
Even the sentinels upon the
walls raised their hands, threw their
bearded faces to the sky and cried
out over all the world beneath them,
"Halana to the Troubadour,
Earthmaker's only Son."'
(The Singer, Calvin Miller pages 86, 91-92)